UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


BASKET  OF  FLOWERS; 


PIETY  AND  TRUTH  TRIUMPHANT. 


A  TALE  FOR  THE  YOUNG. 


AND  ARRANGED 

BY  G.  T.  BEDELL,  D.D. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED   BY   FRENCH   AND   PERKINS. 

BOSTON: 
PERKINS   AND    MARVIN. 

MDCCCXXXIII. 


ENTERED  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year 
1833,  by  FRENCH  &  PERKINS,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the 
District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I.  Page 

The  early  History  of  Mary 7 

2  CHAPTER  II. 

^     Mary  is  introduced  into  the  Castle  of  the  Count          -    19 

CHAPTER  III. 
[     The  Diamond  Ring  lost v    28 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Mary  in  Prison -36 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Trial  of  Mary 43 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Mary's  Father  visits  her  in  Prison        •        r       -       -    47 

CHAPTER  VII. 
The  Judgment  of  the  Court  pronounced  and  executed    52 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

James  and  Mary  compelled  to  beg,  but  at  length  find 
Shelter 59 

CHAPTER  IX. 

The  happy  Life  of  Mary  in  the  Pine  Cottage       -        -    64 

CHAPTER  X. 
The  Father  of  Mary  is  taken  sick       -       -        -        -    71 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Death  of  Mary's  Father 81 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  Xn.  Page 

Mary  experiences  fresh  Trials 90 

CHAPTER  Xm. 
Mary  turned  away  from  the  Pine  Cottage  •       -96 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
Divine  Providence  sends  Relief  to  Mary     -        -       -101 

CHAPTER  XV. 

How  Amelia  came  to  visit  the  Grave-yard          •       -  104 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
The  Story  of  the  finding  of  the  Ring  -       -       -  110 

CHAPTER  XVn. 

The  Injustice  done  to  Mary  acknowledged  and  re- 
paired        117 

CHAPTER  XVIU. 
Another  remarkable  Circumstance  of  this  History       -  120 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Visit  to  the  Pine  Farm 125 

CHAPTER  XX. 
The  Consequences  of  the  Love  of  the  World      -       -130 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

Mary's  Spirit  of  Christian  Forgiveness         -        -        -135 

CHAPTER  XXH. 
Mary's  happy  and  useful  Life         -  ...  139 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
The  Tomb  of  Mary's  Father 142 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  following  beautiful  and  useful  story  was 
first  read  in  French,  and  the  idea  immediately 
suggested  itself  to  my  mind,  that  with  some 
alterations  to  make  it  convey  lessons  of  clear 
and  decided  evangelical  truth,  it  would  be  a 
very  interesting  little  work  for  the  libraries  of 
Sunday-schools,  and  every  variety  of  youth- 
ful readers.  The  story  is  very  touching,  and 
the  lessons  taught  are  most  useful  and  im- 
portant. I  have  never  read  lessons  of  prac- 
tical piety  drawn  with  more  simplicity  than 
they  are  in  this  little  book  from  the  beauties 
of  nature.  Indeed  in  almost  every  chapter 
we  find,  addressed  to  the  youthful  heart,  ser- 
mons whose  texts  are  the  flowers  of  the 
garden. 

Where  the  story  is  merely  translated,  the 
translation  is  a  very  free  one,  and  in  many 
places  large  omissions  are  made,  and  in  others 
considerable  additions  will  be  found. 

G.  T.  B. 

November,  1832. 

A3  5 


THE 

BASKET   OF  FLOWERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  early  History  of  Mary. 

THE  relation  which  we  are  about  to  give  in 
this  little  book,  is  about  some  interesting 
transactions  which  occurred  a  long  time  ago, 
and  in  a  country  far  removed  from  our  own. 
This  will  account  for  some  manners  and  cus- 
toms which  are  not  altogether  familiar  to  our 
young  readers  ;  but  we  shall  endeavour  to 
make  the  history  so  plain  and  familiar, that  all 
who  read  may  understand  the  valuable  instruc- 
tions which  it  is  intended  to  convey.  Human 
nature  is  the  same  in  all  countries,  and  the 
operations  of  divine  grace  are  the  same  in  all 
countries  ;  and  therefore  the  principles  which 
will  be  developed  in  this  history,  and  the  con- 
duct which  will  be  described,  are  such  as  are 
in  constant  operation  everywhere  about  us. 
The  whole  history  is  full  of  interest  and  of  the 
most  valuable  moral  and  religious  instruction  ; 
one  which  we  are  persuaded  our  young  read- 
ers will  peruse  with  pleasure,  and  one  from 
which  they  may  reap  very  great  advantages. 

7 


8  THE    BASKET 

James  Rode,  who  was  the  father  of  Mary, 
was  born  of  poor  but  respectable  parents  in 
Germany.  When  he  was  young,  he  went  to. 
learn  the  art  of  gardening,  from  the  gardener 
of  the  count  of  Eichbourg.  As  he  was  a  young 
man  of  good  natural  understanding,  and  of  an 
amiable  disposition,  and  distinguished  for  his 
uprightness  of  character,  he  soon  became  a 
great  favourite  with  all ;  and  instead  of  going 
away  after  he  had  learned  his  trade, -to  follow 
it  elsewhere,  the  count  took  him  into  his  own 
employment,  and  so  faithfully  did  he  dis- 
charge his  duties,  that  as  he  advanced  in  life 
he  was  rewarded  by  the  present  of  a  little  cot- 
tage, and  land  sufficient  to  afford  him  a  decent 
maintenance  by  gardening.  While  he  was 
quite  young,  James  Rode  had  been  brought  to 
a  knowledge  of  the  truthas  it  is  in  Jesus  Christ. 
He  had  been  born  again  of  the  Spirit,  and 
these  are  the  reasons  why  he  had  been  ena- 
bled so  faithfully  to  discharge  his  duties.  He 
married  a  young  woman  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, who  was  an  orphan,  But  who  had  tasted 
of  the  same  precious  gift  of  God  ;  and  thus 
James  showed  his  obedience  to  the  divine  pre- 
cept to  "marry  only  in  the  Lord ;"  a  precept 
which,  being  so  much  neglected,  brings  a  vast 
deal  of  unhappiness  to  multitudes  both  male 
and  female.  For  several  years  James  and  his 
wife  travelled  the  pilgrimage  of  life  together ; 
in  their  humble  way  so  adorning  the  doctrine 


OF    FLOWERS.  9 

of  God  their  Saviour  in  all  things,  as  not  only 
to  win  respect  a*id  affection  to  themselves,  but 
even  to  the  religion  which  they  professed.  No 
matter  how  humble  the  situation  any  real 
child  of  God  may  occupy,  if  he  is  consistent 
in  his  walk  and  conversation,  he  is  a  witness 
for  the  truth  of  religion  which  no  enemy  can 
be  able  to  gainsay.  Such  were  James  and  his 
wife,  but  as  there  are  no  conditions  of  life,  high 
or  low,  from  which  affliction  and  death  can  be 
excluded,  this  pious  couple  were  frequently 
called  in  the  providence  of  God  to  bear  their 
portion  of  that  discipline  by  which  a  merciful 
God  secures  to  himself  the  hearts  of  his  real 
children.  Several  of  the  offspring  of  this 
pious  pair  were  in  faith  consigned  to  the 
cold  tomb,  "waiting  for  the  general  resur- 
rection at  the  last  day,  and  the  life  of  the  world 
to  come ;"  and  at  length  the  mother  her- 
self, after  a  brief  and  painful  sickness,  fol- 
lowed her  children  to  the  same  narrow  house 
— the  grave.  She  died  as  she  had  lived  in  the 
full  hope  of  everlasting  glory,  founded  on  the 
promises  of  HIM  who  is  "  the  resurrection 
and  the  life."  The  grief  of  the  husband  was 
softened  by  the  resignation  of  the  gospel,  and 
the  blissful  prospect  of  meeting  where  friends 
who  have  loved  the  Lord  can  never  be  sepa- 
rated either  from  Him  or  from .  one  another. 
When  those  we  love  "  die  in  the  Lord,"  we 
may  say, 


f 


10  THE    BASKET 

"  Why  should  we  mourn  departed  friends, 

Or  shake  at  death's  alarms  ? 
Death  's  but  the  servant  Jesus  sends 

To  call  them  to  his  arms !" 

At  the  time  which  this  history  contemplates, 
James  Rode  was  more  than  sixty  years  of  age, 
and  his  hair  almost  as  white  as  the  snow  upon 
the  mountains.  Of  his  numerous  family  one 
only  daughter  remained.  Her  he  had  called 
MARY  after  her  mother.  This  child  was  but 
five  years  of  age  at  her  mother's  death.  By 
all  the  neighbours  she  was  called  a  beautiful 
girl,  and  sometimes  they  were  indiscreet 
enough  to  call  her  so  before  her  face — a  very 
great  mistake,  as  all  children  are  naturally 
prone  to  vanity.  What  was  really  worth  call- 
ing beautiful  was,  that  she  dearly  loved  her 
father,  and  was  modest  and  obedient.  With- 
out these  all  external  appearances  are  nothing 
worth.  When  Mary  came  to  be  fifteen  years 
of  age,  her  father  gave  her  the  entire  charge 
of  the  household  concerns,  and  she  took  such 
good  care  that  every  thing  about  the  house  was 
kept  in  the  most  perfect  cleanliness,  even  the 
kitchen  utensils  \vere  always  scoured  so  bright 
that  they  might  have  been  mistaken  for  new. 
Jfcimes  Rode,  as  we  have  already  said,  was 
a  gardener.  He  made  his  living  by  the  culti- 
vation of  fruits  and  vegetables,  which  once  or 
twice  a  week,  similar  to  our  custom  about 
Philadelphia,  he  carried  to  market  in  the  town, 
which  was  a  very  little  ways  from  his  farm. 


OF    FLOWERS.  11 

His  great  delight,  however,  was  in  the  culti- 
vation of  flowers,  and  in  this  delightful  occu- 
pation Mary  continually  assisted  him  when 
she  could  be  spared  from  the  household  con- 
cerns. She  counted  the  hours  devoted  to  this 
occupation  among  the  happiest  of  her  life,  for 
her  father  had  the  art  of  turning  labour  into 
pleasure  by  his  instructing  and  entertaining, 
and  above  all,  his  pious  conversation. 

Mary,  who  grew  up  as  it  were  in  the  midst 
of  the  plants,  and  for  whom  the  garden  itself 


was  a  little  world,  had  early  discovered  a  de- 
cided taste  for  flowers  ;  and  thus  in  the  hours 
which  she  had  at  her  disposal,  was  always 
sure  of  an  agreeable  occupation.  She  culti- 
vated the  young  plants  with  great  care  and 
assiduity. 

The  buds  of  every»strange  species  were  ob- 


12  THE    BASKET 

jects  of  delightful  study.  She  busied  her 
young  imagination  in  suggesting  what  kind  of 
flowers  they  would  produce,  she  was  hardly 
able  to  wait  till  they  were  expanded ;  and  then 
when  the  flower  so  impatiently  expected  ap- 
peared in  all  its  splendour,  she  was  filled  with 
joy.  The  old  gardener  used  to  say,  "  Let  others 
spend  their  money  for  jewels  and  silks  and 
other  vanities,  I  will  spend  mine  for  flower 
seeds.  Silks  and  satins  and  jewels  cannot 
procure  for  our  children  so  pure  a  pleasure 
as  these  beautiful  exhibitions  of  the  wisdom 
and  the  benevolence  of  God."  In  truth,  there 
was  not  a  day  which  did  not  bring  some  new 
pleasure  to  the  heart  of  Mary.  It  was  rare 
that  any  one  passed  the  garden  without  stop- 
ping to  admire  the  beauty  of  the  flowers  ;  and 
even  the  children  of  the  neighbourhood,  as 
they  passed  by  to  school,  never  failed  to  peep 
across  the  hedge,  and  were  generally  reward- 
ed by  Mary  with  some  little  present  of  flowers 
as  a  token  of  her  good  will. 

James,  as  a  wise  father,  knew  how  to  direct 
the  taste  of  his  daughter  towards  an  end  the 
most  ennobling.  In  the  beauty  of  the  various 
flowers  which  adorned  their  garden — in  the 
charming  variety  of  their  forms — in  the  just- 
ness of  their  proportions — in  the  magnificence 
of  their  colours — and  in  the  exquisite  sweet- 
ness of  their  perfumes,  he  taught  her  to  see 
and  to  admire  the  power,  the  wisdom,  and  the 
goodness  of  God.  These  were  some  of  the 


OF    FLOWERS.  13 

great  ends  towards  which  he  directed  all  her 
pleasures  ;  and  thus  may  emphatically  be  said 
to  nave  led  her  contemplations 

"  From  nature  up  to  nature's  God." 

It  was  the  custom  of  James  Rode  to  conse- 
crate to  prayer  the  first  and  best  hours  of  the 
morning,  and  thus  to  let  every  thing  begin 
with  God.  In  order  to  accomplish  this,  and 
not  to  neglect  his  work,  it  was  his  constant 
habit  to  rise  early — a  habit  almost  essential  to 
a  spiritual  frame  of  mind.  The  life  of  that 
man  is  but  poorly  filled  out,  who  cannot  find 
one  or  two  hours  to  discourse  with  his  heaven- 
ly Father  without  interruption,  and  to  occupy 
his  contemplations  with  the  things  which  re- 
late to  his  everlasting  peace.  In  those  beauti- 
ful days  of  spring  and  summer  which  charac- 
terized the  climate  of  his  country,  James  would 
lead  his  daughter  to  an  arbour  in  the  garden, 
from  whence  could  be  heard  the  morning  song 
of  the  feathered  tribes,  and  from  whence  could 
be  seen  the  whole  of  the  garden,  enamelled 
with  flowers,  and  sparkling  with  dew — the 
range  of  vision  taking  in  a  rich  plain  shining 
in  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  It  was  in  a 
situation  so  favourable  to  devotion  as  this, 
that  he  delighted  to  converse  with  his  tender 
charge  of  that  God,  who  gave  the  sun  his 
brightness,  who  scattered  o'er  the  earth  the 
rain  and  the  dew-drops,  who  fed  the  birds  of 
the  air,  and  dressed  the  flowers  in  their  mag- 
B 


:! 


14  THE    BASKET 

nificent  vestments.  It  was  here  that  he  ac- 
customed the  young  mind  of  Mary  to  contem- 
plate the  Almighty,  as  the  tender  Father  of 
mankind, — as  that  Father,  who  has  manifest- 
ed his  love  towards  mankind  in  all  the  works 
of  his  creation,  but  still  infinitely  more  in  the 
gift  of  his  dear  Son  to  die  for  perishing  sin- 
ners. It  was  here  that  he  taught  her  her 
own  condition  as  a  sinner ;  that  he  placed  in 
terms  the  most  affectionate  before  her  the 
need  of  a  Saviour,  and  gently  led  her  to  Jesus 
Christ.  It  was  here  that  he  taught  her  to 
bend  her  knees  to  the  God  and  Father  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ ;  and  it  was  here  that  he 
had  the  happiness  of  perceiving  that,  like 
Lydia,  the  Lord  opened  her  heart  to  the  re- 
ception of  the  truth.  These  morning  exercises, 
as  might  well  be  expected,  fixed  more  and 
more  deeply  on  her  heart  the  sentiment  of 
piety. 

In  the  flowers  which  Mary  most  loved,  her 
father  was  accustomed  to  point  out  the  em- 
blem of  those  Christian  graces  which  adorn  the 
female  character.  Once  in  the  early  part  of 
March,  when,  with  transports  of  joy,  she 
brought  the  first  violet,  he  said,  "  Let  this 
charming  violet  serve  as  an  image  of  humility, 
of  reserve,  and  of  a  ready,  though  always  dis- 
creet disposition  to  oblige.  Its  clothing  has  the 
colour  appropriated  to  modesty;  it  loves  to 
flourish  in  places  retired  from  common  obser- 
vation ;  and  from  beneath  the  leaves  which 


OF    FLOWERS.  15 

cover  it,  it  embalms  the  nir  with  the  most  de- 
licate perfumes.  So,  my  dear  child,  may  you 
be,  like  a  violet,  a  lover  of  silence,  disdaining 
the  show  of  gaudy  colours,  never  seeking  to 
attract  unnecessary  notice,  but  seeking  to  do 
good  without  parade,  so  long  as  the  flower 
of  your  life  shall  bloom." 

At  the  time  when  the  lilies  and  the  roses 
were  altogether  expanded,  and  when  the  gar- 
den shone  in  all  its  splendour,  the  old  man, 
seeing  his  daughter  elated  with  joy,  pointed 
with  his  finger  to  a  lily,  shining  in  the  rays 
of  the  rising  sun,  and  said  :  «•  See  in  this 
lily,  my  daughter,  the  symbol  of  innocence ; 
observe  how  neat  and  pure.  Its  leaves  are  of 
one  whiteness  which  outvies  that  of  the  rich- 
est satin,  and  equals  that  of  the  driven  snow. 
Happy  is  the  daughter  whose  heart  is  also 
pure ;  for  remember  who  has  said  that  it  is 
the  *  pure  in  heart  who  shall  see  God.'  But 
the  more  pure  the  colour,  the  more  difficult 
to  preserve  it  in  all  its  purity.  The  slight- 
est taint  can  spoil  the  flower  of  the  lily,  and  it 
must  be  touched  even  with  the  greatest  pre- 
caution, lest  it  retain  the  blemish.  Thus  also, 
one  word,  one  thought  can  rob  the  mind  of  its 
purity.  Let  the  rose,"  said  he,  pointing  to 
that  flower,  "be  an  image  of  modesty.  The 
blush  of  modesty  is  more  beautiful  than  that 
of  the  rose.  Happy  is  the  daughter  whom 
the  least  approach  of  that  which  is  indelicate 
will  cause  to  blush,  and  thus  be  put  on  guard 


10  THE    BASKET 

against  the  approacVug  danger.  The  cheeks 
which  readily  blush  will  remain  for  a  long 
time  with  their  roseate  hue,  while  those  which 
fail  to  blush  at  the  least  indelicacy  will  soon 
become  pale  and  wan,  and  devoted  to  an  early 
death."  The  father  of  Mary  gathered  some 
lilies  and  roses,  and  made  of  them  a  bou- 
quet,* and  putting  it  into  her  hands,  he  said: 
"  The  lilies  and  roses  are  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  nothing  can  equal  the  beauty  of  bouquets 
and  garlands,  where  these  flowers  are  mixed. 
Innocence  and  modesty  are  twin  sisters,  which 
cannot  be  separated.  Yes,  my  dear  child, 
that  innocence  might  be  always  on  her  guard, 
God,  in  his  goodness,  has  given  her  modesty 
for  a  sister  and  companion  to  anticipate  the 
approach  of  danger.  Be  always  modest,  and 
you  will  be  always  virtuous.  Oh,  if  the  will 
of  God  be  so,  may  you  always  be  enabled  by 
his  grace  to  preserve  in  your  heart  the  purity 
of  the  lily.  The  rose  on  your  cheek  must 
fade,  but  it  will  be  renewed  again,  if  you  but 
attain  to  the  resurrection  of  the  just,  and  then 
it  shall  flourish  in  immortal  youth." 

"  The  morning  flovv'rs  display  their  sweets, 

And  gay  their  silken  leaves  unfold  ,- 
As  careless  of  the  noonday  heats 

And  fearless  of  the  ev'ning  cold. 
Nipp'd  by  the  wind's  unkindly  blast, 

Parch'd  by  the  sun's  more  fervent  ray, 
The  momentary  glories  waste, 

The  short-liv'd  beauties  die  away. 

*  Pronounced  bo-fcay — a  bunch  of  flowers. 


OF    FLOWERS.  17 

So  blooms  the  human  face  divine, 

When  youth  its  pride  of  beauty  shows  ; 
Fairer  than  spring  the  colours  shine, 

And  sweeter  than  the  op'ning  rose. 
But  worn  by  slowly  rolling  years, 

Or  broke  by  sickness  in  a  day, 
The  fading  glory  disappears, 

The  short-liv'd  beauties  die  away. 
Yet  these,  new  rising  from  the  tomb, 

With  lustre  brighter  far  shall  shine  ; 
Revive  with  ever-during  bloom, 

Safe  from  diseases  and  decline. 
Let  sickness  blast  and  death  devour, 

If  heaven  shall  recompense  our  pains ; 
Perish  the  grass,  and  fade  the  flow'r, 

If  firm  the  word  of  God  remains. 

The  most  beautiful  ornament  of  the  garden 
was  a  dwarf  apple  tree,  not  higher  than  a  rose- 
bush, which  grew  in  a  little  circular  hot-bed 
in  the  middle  of  the  garden.  James  had 
planted  it  on  the  birthday  of  his  daughter, 
and  it  gave  them  every  year  the  most  beauti- 
ful golden-yellow  apples,  spotted  with  red. 
One  season  it  was  peculiarly  promising  and 
covered  with  blossoms.  Mary  did  not  fail  to 
examine  it  every  morning,  and  she  would  ex- 
claim in  ecstasy,  «*  Oh,  how  beautiful,  how 
superb  this  mixture  of  red  and  white !  One 
would  believe  that  the  little  tree  is  but  one 
great  bunch  of  flowers."  One  morning  she 
came  at  the  usual  hour,  but  the  frost  had 
withered  all  the  flowers.  They  were  almost 
brown  and  yellow,  and  were  fast  shrivelling 
up  by  the  sun.  At  this  dismal  sight,  poor 
Mary  burst  into  tears.  "  As  the  frost  spoils 

B2 


18  THE    BASKET 

the  apple  blossom,"  said  her  judicious  father, 
"  so  unholy  gratifications  mar  the  flower  of 
youth.  Tremble,  my  child,  at  the  possibility 
of  departing  from  the  way  of  rectitude.  Ah,  * 
if  the  time  should  ever  arrive  when  the  de- 
lightful hopes  which  you  have  authorized 
should  vanish,  not  for  a  year,  like  the  hopes 
of  this  tree,  but  for  your  whole  life,  alas !  I 
should  shed  tears  more  bitter  than  those  which 
trickle  from  your  eyes.  I  should  not  enjoy 
a  single  hour  of  pleasure,  but  my  gray  hairs 
would  be  brought  with  sorrow  to  the  grave." 
At  thoughts  like  these  James  himself  could 
not  refrain  from  tears,  and  his  words  of  affec- 
tionate solicitude  made  a  deep  impression  on 
the  tender  heart  of  Mary. 

Brought  up  under  the  zealous  and  perse- 
vering care  of  a  father  so  wise  and  tender, 
Mary  grew  up  among  the  flowers  of  the  gar- 
den, fresh  as  the  rose — in  purity  like  the  lily 
— modest  as  the  violet,  and  giving  the  most 
delightful  hopes  of  future  excellence,  as  a 
beautiful  shrub  in  the  time  of  flourishing.  In 
fact,  she  was  a*  tender  sapling,  but  the  plant- 
ing of  the  Lord,  that  he  might  be  glorified. 

It  was  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction  and  gra- 
titude that  the  old  man  always  viewed  his 
beautiful  garden,  of  which  the  fruits  repaid, 
and  amply  repaid,  his  assiduous  care.  But  he 
was  enabled  to  experience  a  satisfaction  the 
most  profound,  when  he  beheld  his  daughter, 


OF    FLOWERS.  19 

in  whom,  by  the  grace  of  God  resting  on  his 
own  pious  labours,  the  religious  education 
which  he  gave  her  seemed  to  bring  forth  the 
most  precious  fruits  to  the  praise  and  glory 
of  God. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Mary  is  introduced  into  the  Castle  of  the  Count. 

IN  almost  all  countries,  the  month  of  May 
is  remarkable  for  its  charms,  so  much  so,  as 
to  justify  the  language  of  the  poet, — 


-  Sweet  month, 


If  not  the  first  the  fairest  of  the  year." 
It  was  early  in  the  charming  month  of  May, 
that  Mary  went  into  a  neighbouring  wood  to 
cut  some  branches  of  the  willow  and  twigs 
of  the  hazel.  She  gathered  them  for  the  use 
of  her  old  father,  for  when  he  was  not  busily 
engaged  in  the  garden,  he  occupied  his  time 
in  making  baskets,  particularly  ladies'  work- 
baskets.  He  made  it  a  point  never  to  be  idle, 
for  industry  is  essential  to  happiness  and  use- 
fulness. It  is  melancholy  to  consider  how 
much  time  is  wasted  by  young  persons  and 
old.  What  our  Saviour  said  in  relation  to 
the  food  with  which  he  had  miraculously  fed 
the  multitude  in  the  wilderness,  is  in  a  very 
emphatic  sense  applicable  to' those  little  parts 


20  THE    BASKET 

of  time  which,  because  we  may  not  have  im- 
mediate occupation,  we  are  apt  to  waste  in 
idleness.  "  Gather  up  the  fragments  that  re-  •• 
main,  that  nothing  be  lost."  It  is  incalculable  ' 
what  might  be  gained  to  the  Lord's  cause,  if 
those  who  are  called  Christians  would  but  in 
some  useful  form  devote  to  purposes  of  Chris- 
tian benevolence  those  "  fragments"  of  time 
which  are  so  generally  wasted.  James  Rode 
was  never  idle.  He  knew  his  duty  to  God 
too  well,  to  waste  any  portion  of  that  time 
which  God  had  given  him,  and  for  which  he 
knew  he  would  have  to  render  an  account.  It 
is  true,  that  in  the  days  in  which  he  lived 
there  were  none  of  those  blessed  plans  of 
Christian  benevolence  which  are  now  so  vi- 
gorously in  motion  for  the  conversion  of  the 
world,  and  therefore  he  had  no  such  object  in 
view  in  the  full  occupation  of  his  time.  He 
was  industrious  because  it  was  his  duty,  and 
he  laboured  in  the  house  in  basket-making 
when  he  was  not  obliged  to  be  in  the  garden, 
because  the  habits  of  industry  had  grown 
with  his  growth  and  strengthened  with  his 
strength ;  and  it  was  while  thus  occupied  that 
Mary  read  to  him  in  God's  precious  book,  or 
he  talked  to  her  about  the  concerns  of  her  im- 
mortal soul. 

While  Mary  was  in  the  woods  gathering 
the  materials  for  her  father's  basket  work, 
she  found  some  beautiful  specimens  of  the 


OF     FLOWERS.  21 

lily  of  the  valley,  and  she  gathered  enough 
of  them  to  make  two  bunches,  one  for  her  fa- 
ther, and  the  other  for  herself.  When  she 
had  finished  her  work  she  returned  home  by 
a  nearer  path  across  an  intervening  meadow, 
and  by  so  doing  she  met  the  countess  of 
Eichbourg  and  her  daughter  Amelia,  who  were 
taking  an  afternoon  walk.  Mary  had  very 
seldom  seen  either  of  them,  for  they  lived  for 
the  most  part  of  their  time  in  the  city ;  but 
were  now  spending  a  few  days  at  their  cha- 
teau. As  she  could  not  avoid  meeting  them, 
she  stepped  a  little  one  side,  with  true  po- 
liteness, such  as  all  well  bred  and  pious 
young  people  will,  to  let  them  pass.  But 
when  they  saw  the  beautiful  bunches  of  lilies 
which  she  had,  they  stopped  to  admire  them, 
and  wanted  to  buy  one.  This  Mary  would 
not  allow.  She  begged  that  the  ladies  would 
each  accept  a  bunch,  and  this  she  did  with 
such  unaffected  grace  and  good  nature,  that 
they  could  not  refuse.  Amelia  requested  her 
to  gather  more,  and  bring  them  to  the  chateau 
every  morning,  which  she  promised,  and  which 
she  faithfully  performed  during  the  season  in 
which  the  lilies  were  in  bloom. 

It  is  said,  and  the  remark  is  justified  by 
experience,  that  some  of  the  most  important 
circumstances  of  our  life  grow  out  of  events 
apparently  of  the  most  trifling  character.  It 
proved  so  in  the  case  of  Mary,  as  the  whole 


22  THE    BASKET 

history  will  fully  evince,  for  to  this  accidental 
meeting, as  we  usually  speak,  is  to  be  traced 
the  most  of  what  is  of  deep  and  painful  in 
this  little  story.  But  God  overrules  all  events," 
and  it  is  abundantly  proved,  that  "  all  things 
shall  work  together  for  good,  to  them  that  love 
him." 

From  Mary's  regular  visits  to  the  chateau 
to  carry  her  morning  bunch  of  flowers,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  an  intimacy  grew 
up  between  her  and  Amelia,  for  they  were 
nearly  of  the  same  age,  and  had  many  similar 
tastes,  though  Amelia  was  destitute  of  that 
"  one  thing  which  is  needful." 

On  the  whole,  it  is  better  that  there  should 
not  be  too  much  intimacy  between  those  who 
from  difference  of  fortune,  or  other  accidental 
circumstances,  are  compelled  to  move  in  very 
different  spheres.  This  remark,  it  is  true, 
applies  in  a  very  limited  degree  to  this  our 
happy  country,  where  there  are  no  privileged 
orders,  and  where  there  ought  to  be  no  dis- 
tinction but  that  great  one  which  God  makes 
between  those  who  serve  and  those  who  serve 
him  not.  Still  friendships  formed  between 
those  who  in  the  providence  of  God  are  placed 
under  very  dissimilar  circumstances  are  not 
much  to  be  encouraged,  and  especially  when 
but  one  of  the  parties  knows  and  feels  the  in- 
fluence of  religion.  Evil  is  always  more 
powerful  than  good  example,  and  there  are 


OF    FLOWERS.  23 

few  who  will  not  be  led  to  envy  that  which 
they  suppose  conducive  to  the  happiness  of 
those  who  possess  all  that  the  world  can  give. 

As  the  anniversary  of  Amelia's  birth-day 
was  drawing  near,  Mary  determined  to  make 
her  some  little  rural  present,  but  as  to  bunches 
of  flowers,  she  had  given  so  many  already, 
that  she  wanted  to  think  of  something  new. 
During  the  preceding  winter,  her  father  made 
many  work-baskets,  all  of  superior  elegance, 
but  the  most  beautiful  he  meant  for  Mary 
herself.  On  it  he  had  worked  the  design  of 
the  village,  and  for  that  kind  of  work  it  was  of 
remarkable  perfection.  Mary  determined  to 
fill  this  basket  with  flowers,  and  to  offer  it  to 
the  young  countess  as  her  birth-day  present. 
Her  father  readily  granted  his  permission,  and 
still  more  to  embellish  the  beautiful  basket,  he 
put  Amelia's  name  in  elegant  willow  work  on 
one  side,  and  the  coat  of  arms  of  the  count  on 
the  other. 

The  expected  day  having  arrived,  early  in 
the  morning  Mary  gathered  the  freshest  roses, 
the  most  beautiful  stockgilli-flowers,  the  rich- 
est pinks,  and  other  flowers  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful colours.  She  picked  out  some  green 
branches,  full  of  foliage,  and  disposed  the 
flowers  in  the  basket,  so  intermingled  with 
green  leaves,  that  all  the  colours,  though  per- 
fectly distinct,  were  yet  sweetly  and  delicately 
blended.  One  light  garland,  composed  of  rose- 


24  THE    BASKET 

buds  and  moss,  was  passed  around  the  bas- 
ket, and  the  name  of  Amelia  could  be  dis- 
tinctly read  enclosed  in  a  coronet  of  forget- 
me-nots.  The  whole  appearance  of  the  basket 
was  really  of  uncommon  beauty. 

Mary  then  went  to  the  chateau,  with  her 
present,  which  she  offered  to  the  countess 
Amelia,  adding  the  best  wishes  of  her  heart, 
for  her  young  friend's  happiness,  both  here 
and  hereafter.  The  young  countess  was  then 
sitting  at  her  toilet.  Behind  her  was  her 
dressing  maid,  busy  at  a  head-dress,  for  the 
birth-day  feast.  Amelia  received  the  present 
with  peculiar  pleasure  ;  and  she  could  hardly 
find  terms  in  which  to  express  her  delight,  as 
she  viewed  the  charming  flowers  so  tastefully 
arranged  in  the  basket.  "  Dear  Mary,"  said 
she,  "  you  have  robbed  your  garden  to  make 
me  so  rich  a  present,  and  as  to  the  basket,  I 
have  never  seen  any  thing  like  it  in  all  my 
life.  Come,  let  us  go  and  show  it  to  my 
mother."  She  then  took  Mary  fondly  by  the 
hand,  and  made  her  go  up  with  her  to  the 
apartments  of  the  countess.  "  See,  mother," 
said  Amelia,  "  if  any  thing  can  equal  the 
present  I  have  received  from  Mary.  Never 
have  you  seen  so  beautiful  a  basket,  and  no- 
where can  you  find  such  beautiful  flowers." 
The  basket  of  flowers  highly  pleased  the 
countess.  "  In  truth,"  said  she,  "  this  basket, 
with  its  flowers  yet  wet  with  dew,  is  really 


'OFFLOWERS.  25 

charming.  It  equals  the  most  experienced 
efforts  of  the  pencil.  It  does  honour  to  the 
taste  of  Mary,  but  more  to  the  kindness  of 
her  heart."  "  Wait  a  little,  my  child,"  said 
she  to  Mary,  while  she  made  a  sign  to  Amelia 
to  follow  her  into  another  room. 

"  Amelia,"  said  the  countess,  "  Mary  must 
not  be  permitted  to  go  away  without  some 
suitable  return.  What  have  you  to  give  her?" 
After  a  moment's  reflection,  "  I  think,"  said 
Amelia,  "  that  one  of  my  dresses  would  be 
best ;  for  instance,  if  you  will  permit  me,  my 
dear  mother,  that  which  has  red  and  white 
flowers  on  a  deep  green  ground.  It  is  almost 
new,  I  have  worn  it  but  once.  It  is  a  little 
too  short  for  me,  but  it  will  fit  Mary  exactly, 
and  she  can  arrange  it  herself,  she  is  so  tasty. 
If  it  is  not,  therefore,  too  much" — 

The  countess  interrupted  her,  "  Too  much  ; 
certainly  not.  When  you  wish  to  give  any 
thing,  it  ought  to  be  something  serviceable. 
The  green  robe  with  the  flowers  will  be  very 

appropriate  for  Mary. Go  now,  my  dear 

children,"  said  the  countess,  when  they  re- 
turned, "  take  good  care  of  the  flowers  lest 
they  fade  before  dinner.  I  want  the  guests  to 
admire  the  basket  also,  which  will  be  the 
most  beautiful  ornament  of  the  table.  Amelia 
will  thank  you  for  your  present,  dear  Mary." 

Amelia  ran  to  her  room  with  Mary,  and 
told  her  maid  to  bring  the  robe.  Juliette  (for 
C 


26  THE    BASKET 

that  was  her  name),  looking  at  her,  said,  "  Do 
you  wish  to  wear  that  robe  to-day,  Miss  ?" 
— "  No,"  said  Amelia,  "  I  intend  to  make  it  a 
present  to  Mary." — "Give  that  dress  away!"* 
replied  Juliette,  "  does  your  mother  know 
that?" — "Bring  me  the  robe,"  said  Amelia, 
"  and  you  need  give  yourself  no  trouble  about 
the  rest." 

Juliette  turned  herself  round  that  she  might 
hide  her  spite  ;  and  \vent  away,  her  face  burn- 
ing with  anger.  She  opened  the  wardrobe 
with  a  pull,  and  took  from  it  the  dress  of  the 
young  countess.  "1  wish  I  was  able  to  tear 
it  to  pieces,"  said  the  wicked  girl.  "  This 
Mary  has  already  won  the  good  graces  of  my 
young  mistress,  and  now,  lo  !  she  steals  from 
me  this  dress,  for  it  ought  to  have  been  mine 
when  Amelia  was  done  with  it.  I  wish  I  was 
able  to  tear  out  the  eyes  of  this  little  nosegay 
girl.  But  I  will  be  revenged."  What  a 
dreadful  and  wicked  spirit  did  Juliette  in- 
dulge. She  ought  to  have  been  glad  at  Mary's 
good  fortune,  but  Juliette's  heart  was  wrong 
— she  would  never  listen  to  religion,  and 
this  little  circumstance  gave  her  occasion  to 
display  her  evil  temper.  Suppressing  her 
anger,  however,  she  returned  with  a  pleasant 
air,  and  gave  the  dress  to  Amelia. 

"  Dear  Mary,"  said  Amelia,  "  I  have  had 
presents  to-day,  much  more  rich  than  your 
basket;  but  none  which  give  me  so  much 


OF    FLOWERS.  27 

pleasure.  The  flowers  on  this  robe — receive 
it  as  a  token  of  my  affection,  and  carry  my 
best  wishes  to  your  good  old  father."  Mary 
then  took  the  dress,  kissed  the  hand  of  the 
young  countess,  and  left  the  chateau. 

Juliette,  jealous  and  enraged,  continued  her 
work  in  silence.  It  cost  her  many  a  struggle 
before  she  could  finish  the  head-dress  she 
was  preparing ;  but  she  could  not  totally  dis- 
semble her  wrath.  "  Are  you  angry,  Ju- 
liette ?"  said  the  young  countess.  "  I  should 
have  been  very  silly,"  .answered  Juliette,  "to 
have  been  angry  because  you  choose  to  be 
generous." — "  That  is  a  sensible  speech," 
rejoined  Amelia — "  I  hope  you  may  feel  just 
so  reasonable." 

Mary  ran  home  full  of  joy,  but  her  father 
had  too  much  prudence  to  feel  any  pleasure 
whatever  in  such  a  present.  Gay  dresses 
are  not  appropriate  to  those  who  have  been 
taught  to  consider  more  of  the  inward  man 
of  the  heart,  than  the  outward  adorning  of 
the  body.  "  I  would  much  rather,  my  love," 
said  he,  "  that  you  had  not  carried  the  basket 
to  the  chateau,  but  it  cannot  be  helped  now. 
This  dress  is  in  no  sense  valuable  except  as 
a  present  from  those  whom  we  so  highly  re- 
spect. I  fear  that  this  will  but  rouse  the 
jealousy  of  others,  and  what  is  still  Worse, 
that  it  may  fill  your  own  heart  with  vanity. 
Take  care,  my  dear  child,  that  you  run  not 


28  THE    BASKET 

into  the  greatest  of  these  two  evils.  Modesty 
and  good  manners  are  more  becoming  to  a 
young  girl,  than  the  most  beautiful  and  costly 
garments.  Remember  the  book  of  God  says," 
it  is  '  the  ornament  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spi- 
rit,' which  in  the  sight  of  God  is  of  great 
price." 

Dear  young  reader,  especially  if  you  are  a 
female,  bewaffe  of  fondness  for  dress.  Neat- 
ness, according  to  the  circumstances  in  which 
you  are  placed,  is  that  which  is  most  consist- 
ent with  the  will  of  God,  and  most  calculated 
to  gain  the  real  respect  of  the  world.  Many 
a  young  person  has  been  lost  by  the  indul- 
gence of  a  taste  for  dress,  and  many  a  young 
professor  of  religion  has,  on  this  very  rock, 
made  shipwreck  of  the  faith. 


CHAPTER   III. 

The  diamond  Ring  lost 

MARY  had  scarcely  left  the  castle,  when 
the  countess  missed  her  elegant  diamond  ring1, 
and  as  no  one  had  been  in  the  room  where 
she  had  laid  it  down  but  Mary,  suspicion  na- 
turally fell  upon  her.  The  young  countess 
Amelia  immediately  set  out  for  the  cottage  in 
hope  that  she  could  induce  Mary  to  restore 
it  before  the  knowledge  of  the  theft  had  been 
spread  abroad. 


OF    FLOWERS.  29 

Little  did  Mary  think  when  she  was  trying 
on  the  beautiful  robe  which  Amelia  had  given 
her,  that  she  was  suspected  of  being  a  thief, 
and  she  was  amazed  at  beholding  the  young 
countess  enter  her  little  room,  pale,  trembling, 
and  almost  out  of  breath. 

"  My  dear  Mary,"  said  Amelia,  "  what 
have  you  been  doing  ?  My  mother's  diamond 
ring  is  lost,  and  no  one  was  in  the  chamber 
but  you  :  give  it  back  quickly,  and  nothing 
further  will  be  said." 

Mary,  as  may  well  be  expected,  became 
frightened  and  turned  pale  as  death.  She  de- 
clared she  had  not  seen  the  ring,  and  that  she 
had  not  moved  from  the  place  where  she  sat 
when  she  went  in.  But  all  her  declarations 
«ould  not  convince  Amelia,  and  she  continued 
to  urge  her  to  give  up  the  ring.  She  told  her 
that  it  was  worth  a  thousand  dollars,  and  that 
she  must  have  taken  it.  Mary  wept  bitterly 
at  this  suspicion.  "  Truly,"  said  she,  "  I 
have  not  the  ring.  I  have  never  ventured  to 
touch  that  which  did  not  belong  to  me,  much 
less  to  steal.  My  dear  father  has  always 
taught  me  better." 

At  this  moment  the  old  man  came  in — he 
was  at  work  in  the  garden  when  he  saw  the 
young  countess  running  with  all  her  might, 
and  he  returned  to  the  house  to  see  what  was 
the  matter ;  and  when  he  learned  the  whole, 
he  was  so  entirely  overcome  that  he  was 
c  2 


30 


THE    BASKET 


obliged  to  seize  hold  of  the  corner  of  a  table 
and  sink  upon  a  bench. 


"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  old  man,  "  to 
steal  a  ring  of  this  price  is  a  crime  which,  in 
this  country,  is  punished  with  death.  But 


OF     FLOWERS.  31 

this  is  not  all — consider  the  command  of  God, 
*  Thou  shalt  not  steal.'  One  such  action  not 
only  renders  you  responsible  to  men,  but  to 
that  God  who  reads  the  heart,  and  with  whom 
all  false  denials  amount  to  nothing.  Have 
you  forgotten  the  holy  commandment  of  God  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  my  paternal  advice  ?  Were 
you  dazzled  with  the  splendour  of  the  gold 
and  precious  stones  ?  Alas  !  do  not  deny  the 
fact,  but  restore  the  ring — it  is  the  only  repa- 
ration you  can  make." 

"  Oh,  my  father,"  said  Mary,  weeping  and 
sobbing,  "  be  sure,  be  very  sure,  that  I  have 
not  the  ring.  If  I  had  even  found  such  a 
ring  in  the  road,  I  could  not  have  rested  till 
I  restored  it  to  its  owner.  Indeed  I  have  it 
not." 

"  Look  at  this  dear  young  lady,"  said  the 
old  man,  "  her  affection  for  you  is  so  great, 
that  she  wishes  to  save  you  from  the  hand  of 
justice^  Mary,  be  frank,  and  do  not  tell  a 
falsehood." 

"  My  father,"  said  Mary,  "  you  well  know 
that  I  never  in  my  life  stole  even  a  penny, 
and  how  should  I  take  any  thing  so  valuable. 
Oh  believe  me,  for  I  never  have  told  you  a 
lie." 

"  Mary,"  again  said  her  father,  "see  my 
gray  hairs.  Oh !  do  not  bring  them  down 
with  sorrow  to  the  grave.  Spare  me  so  great 
an  affliction.  Tell  me,  before  your  Maker,  in 


32  THE     BASKET 

whose  kingdom  there  is  no  place  for  thieves, 
tell  me  if  you  did  take  the  ring." 

Mary  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  filled  with 
tears,  and  in  the  most  solemn  manner  assured 
her  father  that  she  was  entirely  innocent. 

The  old  man  was  convinced  of  the  inno- 
cence of  his  daughter.  "  I  do  believe  you," 
he  cried  ;  "  you  would  not  dare  to  lie  in  the 
presence  of  God  and  here  before  this  young 
countess  and  myself.  And  since  I  believe 
you  innocent,  take  comfort  and  fear  nothing. 
There  is  nothing  to  fear  on  earth  but  sin. 
Prison  and  death  are  not  to  be  compared  to  it. 
Whatever  happens  then,  let  u"s  put  our  trust 
in  God.  All  will  yet  come  right,  for  he  says, 
*  I  will  make  thy  righteousness  as  clear  as  the 
light,  and  thy  just  dealing  as  the  noon-clay.'  " 

"  Truly,"  said  Amelia,  **  when  I  hear  you 
speak  in  this  way,  I  also  believe  that  you 
have  not  the  ring.  But  when  I  examine  all 
the  circumstances,  how  is  it  possible  ?  My 
mother  knows  exactly  the  place  whefl  she 
put  it  down  ;  and  not  a  living  soul  was  there 
but  Mary,  and  as  soon  as  she  went  out,  my 
mother  missed  the  ring.  Who  then  could 
have  taken  it  ?" 

"  That  is  impossible  for  me  to  say,"  re- 
plied James.  "  May  God  prepare  us  for  this 
severe  trial.  But  whatever  happens,"  said 
he,  looking  up  to  heaven,  "  I  am  ready.  Give 
me  but  thy  grace,  O  God,  it  is  all  I  ask  " 


OF    FLOWERS.  33 

"  Truly,"  said  the  countess,  "  I  return  to 
the  chateau  with  a  heavy  heart.  This  for  me 
is  but  a  sad  anniversary.  My  mother  as  yet 
has  spoken  to  no  one  on  the  subject  but  my- 
self; but  it  will  not  be  possible  longer  to  keep 
the  secret.  She  must  wear  the  ring  to-day, 
for  my  father,  whom  we  expect  from  court  at 
noon,  will  immediately  perceive  she  is  with- 
out it.  He  gave  it  to  her  the  day  I  was  born ; 
and  she  has  never  ceased  to  wear  it  on  each 
succeeding  anniversary.  She  believes  that  I 
will  bring  it  back.  Farewell,"  continued 
Amelia.  "  I  will  say  that  I  consider  you  as 
innocent;  but  who  will  believe  me?"  She 
went  out  overwhelmed  with  sadness,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Mary's  father  seated  himself  upon  a  bench 
resting  his  head  on  his  hand,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  earth.  The  tears  chased  them- 
selves down  his  wrinkled  cheeks.  Mary 
threw  herself  at  his  knees,  and  said,  *'  O  my 
father,  indeed  I  am  innocent  of  this  affair." 

He  raised  himself  and  looked  a  long  time 
in  her  eyes,  and  then  said,  "  Yes,  Mary,  you 
are  innocent.  That  look,  where  integrity  and 
truth  are  painted,  cannot  be  that  of  crime." 

"  O  my  father,"  added  Mary,  "  what  will 
be  the  issue  of  this  ?  what  is  it  that  awaits  us  ? 
If  it  but  threatens  me,  I  submit  without  pain ; 
but  that  you,  rriy  father,  should  suffer  on  my 
account,  is  an  idea  to  me  insupportable." 


34  THE     BASKET 

"  Have  confidence  in  God,"  answered  her 
father.  "  Take  courage  ;  not  one  hair  of  our 
heads  can  fall  to  the  ground  without  the  per- 
mission of  the  Lord.  All  that  happens  to  us  * 
is  the  will  of  God ;  it  will,  therefore,  be  for 
our  advantage,  and  what  can  we  wish  more  ? 
Be  not  terrified — keep  to  the  strictest  truth. 
When  they  threaten,  when  they  promise,  do 
not  depart  from  truth,  not  even  the  crossing 
of  a  finger  ;  wound  not  your  conscience.  A 
clear  conscience  is  a  good  pillow  even  in  a 
dungeon.  Without  doubt  we  shall  be  sepa- 
rated :  your  father  will  no  longer  be  there  to 
console  you  ;  think  only  to  attach  yourself 
more  closely  to  your  Father  which  is  in  hea- 
ven. He  is  a  powerful  protector  of  inno- 
cence, and  nothing  can  deprive  you  of  his 
support." 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  with  a  noise. 
The  bailiff  entered,  followed  by  other  officers 
of  justice.  Mary  uttered  a  cry,  and  fell  into 
the  arms  of  her  father.  "  Let  them  be  sepa- 
rated," cried  the  officer,  his  eyes  shining  with 
wrath.  "  Let  the  daughter  be  bound  and  cast 
into  prison.  Let  the  father  also  be  held  in 
safe  guard.  Occupy  the  house  and  the  gar- 
den ;  search  everywhere — allow  no  one  to 
enter  until  the  sheriff  has  made  the  inven- 
tory." The  officers  seized  Mary,  who  clung 
to  her  father  with  all  her  force,  but  they  tore  • 


OF    FLOWERS.  35 

her  from  the  arms  of  the  old  man  and  chained 
her.  She  fainted,  and  in  that  state  was  car- 
ried away.  When  they  conducted  the  father 
and  daughter  across  the  street,  a  crowd  accu- 
mulated in  their  way.  The  story  of  the  ring 
had  spread  through  the  whole  village ;  the 
neighbours  pressed  around  the  little  cottage 
of  the  gardener  as  if  it  had  been  on  fire. 
People  were  heard  to  pronounce  judgments 
the  most  opposite.  Notwithstanding  the 
bounty  of  Mary  and  her  father  towards  all, 
there  were  some  to  whom  it  gave  the  highest 
pleasure  to  exercise  the  malignity  of  their 
language.  The  comfort  which  James  and 
Mary  had  acquired  by  dint  of  industry  and 
economy  had  attracted  much  envy.  "  Now," 
said  some,  "  we  can  know  where  all  these 
good  things  came  from ;  we  were  never  able 
to  understand  it  until  the  present.  If  this 
is  the  ^method,  it  is  no  great  merit  to  live 
in  abuncfemce,  and  be  better  clad  than  their 
honest  neighbours."  Nevertheless  the  in- 
habitants of  Eichbourg,  for  the  most  part, 
showed  a  sincere  compassion  for  James  and 
his  daughter,  and  many  a  father  and  mother 
were  heard  to  say,  "  Truly  the  best  are  liable 
to  fall — who  would  have  believed  this  of 
these  good  people  ?"  Others  said,  "  Perhaps 
it  is  not  as  is  thought.  May  their  innocence 
be  made  to  appear  in  the  day  of  trial ;  and 


36  THE    BASKET 

when  that  comes,  may  God  assist  them  to 
escape  the  terrible  evils  which  now  threaten 
them." 

Here  and  there  were  seen  groups  of  chil- 
dren weeping.  "  Alas  !"  said  they,  "  if  they 
send  these  to  prison,  who  will  give  us  fruits 
and  flowers  ?" 

There  are  no  circumstances  in  which  the 
afflicted  do  not  find  some  to  sympathize.  But 
for  the  most  part  so  "  desperately  wicked"  is 
the  human  heart,  that  we  are  ready  to  believe 
all  the  ill  we  hear  of  others,  even  without  in- 
quiry, and  there  are  few  who  are  willing  to 
stand-up  the  advocates  of  the  distressed. 
There  is  but  one  friend  who  will  never  desert 
those  who  are  unjustly  suspected,  and  it  is 
He  of  whom  it  is  said — "  There  is  a  friend 
who  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mary  in  Prison. 

MARY  was  almost  insensible  when  they 
took  her  to  prison.  When  she  recovered  from 
her  swoon,  she  wept,  sobbed,  clasped  her 
hands,  and  engaged  in  prayer.  At  length, 


OF     FLOWERS. 


37 


overcome  with  terror,  overwhelmed  with  sad- 
ness, and  fatigued  from  having  shed  so  many 
tears,  she  threw  herself  upon  her  bed  of 
straw  and  a  sweet  sleep  soon  closed  her 
D 


A  Ori 


38  THEBASKET 

heavy  eyelids.  When  she  awoke,  it  was  al- 
most night.  The  darkness  prevented  her 
from  distinguishing  a  single  object.  It  was  a 
long  while  before  she  knew  where  she  was.' 
The  story  of  the  ring  appeared  to  her  as  a 
dream,  and  at  first  she  thought  herself  on  her 
own  little  bed ;  she  was  consoling  herself 
with  that  idea,  when  she  felt  that  her  hands 
were  chained.  Frightened  by  the  noise  of 
the  chains,  she  jumped  from  her  bed,  and  all 
the  sad  reality  burst  upon  her  mind.  "  What 
can  I  do,"  said  she,  falling  on  her  knees, 
"  but  raise  my  heart  to  God." 

Mary  then  engaged  in  prayer.  She  prayed 
for  herself,  but  particularly  for  her  dear  father, 
that  the  Lord  would  support  him  in  the  trou- 
ble now  brought  upon  him. 

The  recollection  of  her  father  caused  a  tor- 
rent of  tears  to  flow  from  her  eyes.  Grief 
and  pity  stopped  her  utterance.  She  con- 
tinued for  a  long  time  thus  to  cry  and  sob. 
The  moon,  over  which  until  then  large  clouds 
had  thrown  a  thick  veil,  now  appeared  through 
a  little  iron  grating,  penetrated  to  the  cell,  and 
threw  on  the  floor  the  shadow  of  the  grating. 
Mary  could  easily  distinguish  by  moonlight 
the  four  walls  of  her  narrow  prison  ;  the  large 
bricks  of  which  they  were  constructed  ;  the 
white  mortar  which  united  the  red  bricks ;  a 
projection  in  the  wall  breast  high,  placed  in  -a 


OF    FLOWERS.  39 

form  occupying  the  place  of  a  table ;  the 
pitcher  and  clay  porringer  that  were  placed 
there  ;  at  last  the  straw  which  served  her  for 
a  bed.  From  the  time  that  light  dissipated 
the  darkness  that  surrounded  Mary,  she  felt 
her  heart  somewhat  soothed.  Besides  this, 
Mary  perceived,  with  astonishment,  that  some 
flowers  seemed  to  shed  over  her  prison  their 
sweet  perfume.  That  morning  she  had  made 
a  bouquet  of  rose-buds,  and  other  flowers, 
which  remained  from  the  basket,  and  had 
placed  them  in  her  bosom.  It  was  they  which 
shed  an  agreeable  odour.  She  untied  the 
bouquet,  and  contemplated  it  by  the  light  of 
the  moon.  "  Alas  !"  said  she,  "  when  this 
morning  I  gathered  these  rose-buds  in  my 
garden,  and  these  forget-me-nots,  who  would 
have  thought  that  the  same  evening  I  should 
be  the  tenant  of  this  gloomy  dungeon.  When 
I  wore  these  garlands,  who  would  have  ima- 
gined that  the  same  day  I  should  be  doomed 
to  bear  these  iron  chains.  It  is  thus  that  all 
earthly  things  are  subject  to  change.  It  is 
thus  that  man  never  knows  in  how  short  a 
time  his  position  may  be  entirely  changed 
and  to  what  unfortunate  events  his  most  in- 
nocent actions  may  give  occasion.  Truly 
there  is  need  that  we  should  daily  commend 
ourselves  to  the  protection  of  the  Almigh- 
ty." She  again  wept ;  some  tears  fell  upon 


40  ?HE    BASKET 

her  rose-buds,  and  upon  her  forget-me-nots. 
By  the  light  of  the  moon  those  tears  might 
have  been  taken  for  dew-drops.  "  He  who 
forgets  not  to  send  the  rain  and  dew  to* 
moisten  the  flowers,  will  not  forget  me,"  she 
said,  and  then  the  recollection  of  her  father 
drew  tears  from  her  eyes.  "  O  my  dear  fa- 
ther," said  she,  "  while  I  contemplate  this 
bouquet,  how  much  advice  that  you  have  given 
me  concerning  flowers  presents  itself  to  my 
memory.  From  the  midst  of  thorns  I  have 
taken  these  rose-buds.  Thus  joys  will  arise 
to  me  from  the  troubles  I  endure.  Had  any 
one  attempted  prematurely  to  expand  the 
leaves  of  this  rose-bud,  it  would  have  perish- 
ed. It  seems  that  God  with  a  delicate  finger 
has  gradually  unfolded  this  purple  cup,  and 
his  breath  shed  over  it  a  sweet  perfume.  He 
can  disperse  the  evils  which  afflict  me,  and 
make  that  good  which  seemed  but  evil ;  I 
will  patiently  wait  his  time.  These  flowers 
remind  me  of  Him  who  created  them.  Yes ; 
I  will  remember  Him  as  He  remembered  me. 
These  tender  flowers  !  they  are  blue  as  the 
heavens.  May  heaven  be  my  consolation 
under  all  that  I  suffer  upon  earth.  Here  are 
some  sweet  peas,  with  small  delicate  leaves, 
half  red,  half  white.  This  plant  grows  and 
winds  itself  around  a  support  which  it  needs, 
that  it  may  not  creep  in  the  dust ;  and  there 
it  balances  itself  above  the  earth,  and  displays 


OF    FLOWERS.  41 

its  flowers,  which  would  be  taken  for  the 
wings  of  a  butterfly.  It  is  thus  that  1  will 
cling  to  God,  and  by  his  assistance  will  raise 
myself  above  the  dust  and  miseries  of  this 
life.  It  is  particularly  this  mignionette  which 
diffuses  this  sweet  perfume.  Sweet  plant,  you 
exhilarate  by  your  odour  the  one  who  tore 
you  from  the  earth.  I  wish  to  resemble  you, 
and  to  show  good  even  towards  those  who 
without  any  reason  have  torn  me  from  my 
garden,  to  throw  me  into  this  prison.  Here 
is  a  little  sprig  of  periwinkle,  which  resists  the 
winter,  and  preserves  its  verdure,  even  in  the 
most  rigorous  seasons.  It  is  the  emblem  of 
hope.  I  will  also  preserve  hope,  now  that 
the  time  of  suffering  has  come.  God  who 
protects  the  freshness  and  verdure  of  this 
plant  from  the  attacks  of  winter,  of  ice,  and 
snow,  will  support  me  also  from  the  attacks 
of  adversity.  Here  again  are  two  leaves  of 
laurel ;  they  remind  me  of  that  incorruptible 
crown,  which  is  reserved  in  heaven  for  all 
those  who  love  the  Lord,  and  have  suffered 
upon  earth  with  submission  to  his  will.  It 
appears  to  me  that  I  already  behold  it  sur- 
rounded with  golden  rays,  an  imperishable 
crown  of  glory.  Flowers  of  the  earth !  you 
are  short-lived,  as  its  joys;  you  fade,  you 
wither  in  an  instant.  But  in  heaven,  after  the 
short  suffering  we  experience  here  below,  an 
unalterable  felicity  awaits  us,  and  we  will  en- 
D2 


42  THE    BASKET 

joy  an  eternal  glory,  if  Christ  the  Saviour  is 
our  hope."  Mary  consoled  herself  by  thus  talk- 
ing to  herself.  Suddenly  a  dark  cloud  covered  . 
the  moon.  Mary  no  longer  saw  her  flowers. 
Dreadful  darkness  was  diffused  throughout 
the  prison,  and  grief  re-entered  her  heart. 

But  very  soon  the  cloud  passed,  and  the 
moon  re-appeared  in  her  first  burst  of  beauty. 
"  It  is  thus,"  said  Mary,  "  that  clouds  can  be 
cast  over  us,  but  they  are  dissipated  in  the 
end,  and  we  re-appear  as  brilliant  as  before. 
It  is  thus,  if  a  dark  suspicion  now  tarnishes 
my  character,  God  will  make  me  triumph  over 
every  false  accusation."  Then  Mary  again 
stretched  herself  upon  her  bundle  of  straw, 
and  slept  with  sweet  tranquillity.  An  agree- 
able dream  soothed  her  heart,  and  afforded 
her  peace.  She  dreamed  that  she  walked  by 
moonlight  in  a  little  garden  quite  new  to  her. 
It  was  situated  in  a  wilderness  surrounded  by 
a  dark  forest  of  oaks,  which  offered  to  her 
the  greatest  enjoyment.  The  moon  until  then 
had  never  appeared  to  her  so  beautiful  nor  so 
brilliant.  Illumined  by  her  sweet  light,  the 
diversified  flowers,  ornaments  of  this  little 
garden,  displayed  a  thousand  charms  and  filled 
the  air  with  the  most  agreeable  perfume.  She 
saw  her  father  with  her  in  this  wonderful 
garden.  The  moon  illumined  his  venerable 
and  serene  countenance,  animated  by  a  gra- 
cious smile.  She  ran  to  him  and  shed  sweet 


OF    FLOWERS.  43 

tears  on  the  old  man's  bosom,  with  which  her 
cheeks  were  wet  when  she  awoke.  It  was  a 
dream,  but  it  comforted  her  heart. 


CHAPTER   V. 

The  Trial  of  Mary. 

MARY  was  scarcely  awake,  when  an  officer 
came  to  conduct  her  to  the  tribunal.  She  trem- 
bled at  the  sight  of  the  dark  room  in  which 
the  court  was  held.  The  judge  was  seated 
in  a  large  chair  covered  with  scarlet,  and  the 
clerk  stood  before  an  enormous  table  filled 
with  writings.  The  judge  asked  Mary  a 
number  of  questions,  and  she  answered  them 
all  as  truth  required.  She  wept  much,  but 
persisted  in  declaring  her  innocence.  "  Do 
not  attempt  to  make  me  believe  this,"  said 
the  judge.  "  No  one  but  yourself  entered 
the  room — no  one  but  you  then  can  have  the 
ring.  You  had  better  acknowledge  it." — "  I 
cannot,"  answered  Mary,  weeping,  "  I  can 
never  say  any  thing  but  the  truth.  I  have 
not  seen  it,  indeed  I  have  not." 

"  The  ring  was  seen  in  your  hands,"  con- 
tinued the  judge ;  "  what  will  you  now  say  ?" 
Mary  persisted  that  the  thing  was  impossible. 
The  judge  then  rang  a  little  bell,  and  Juliette 
was  brought  in.  Juliette,  in  the  fit  of  jealousy 


44  THE    BASKET 

which  the  dress  given  to  Mary  had  caused,  and 
in  the  guilty  design  of  depriving  her  of  the 
favour  of  her  mistress,  had  said  to  the  people 
of  the  castle  that  she  had  seen  Mary  take  it. 
In  consequence  of  this  falsehood,  Juliette  was 
summoned  as  a  witness,  and  lest  she  should 
be  caught  in  a  lie,  she  determined  to  main- 
tain it,  even  in  a  court  of  justice.  When  she 
was  summoned,  and  the  judge  required  her  to 
declare  the  truth  before  God,  she  felt  her  heart 
beat  quickly,  and  her  knees  trembled  under 
her.  But  this  wicked  girl  listened  neither  to 
the  voice  of  the  judge,  nor  that  of  her  con- 
science. "  If,"  said  she  to  herself,  "I  ac- 
knowledge now  that  I  have  lied,  then  I  will 
be  driven  away  or  perhaps  imprisoned."  She 
persisted  in  her  imposture,  and  addressing 
herself  to  Mary,  she  said,  with  effrontery, 
"  You  have  the  ring,  I  saw  you  with  it." 
Mary  heard  this  calumny  with  horror,  but 
she  did  not  suffer  passion  to  get  the  better  of 
her  judgment.  Sh«  could  not,  however,  re- 
frain from  weeping,  and  her  tears  almost 
choked  her  utterance.  "  It  is  not  true — you 
did  not  see  me  with  ti.3  ring.  How  can  you 
assert  so  terrible  a  falsehood,  and  thus  cause 
my  ruin  without  my  having  ever  injured 
you."  But  Juliette,  who  considered  her  own 
temporal  interest,  and  felt  nothing  but  hatred 
and  jealousy  towards  Mary,  remained  insensi-. 
ble.  She  repeated  her  falsehood  with  aggra- 


OF    FLOWERS.  45 

vated  circumstances  and  details,  and  then  was 
dismissed  by  the  judge.  "  Mary,  you  are 
convicted,"  said  he.  "  Every  circumstance 
is  against  you.  The  chambermaid  of  the 
young  countess  has  seen  the  ring  in  your 
hands ;  tell  me,  now,  what  you  have  done 
with  it."  Mary  still  asserted  that  she  had  it 
not.  According  to  the  cruel  custom  of  those 
days,  the  judge  had  her  whipped  until  the 
blood  came,  in  hopes  that  she  would  confess. 

Mary  screamed  and  wept,  and  continued  to 
repeat  that  she  was  innocent,  but  in  vain. 
Pale,  trembling,  and  torn  with  blows,  she 
was  again  thrown  into  prison.  Her  wounds 
gave  her  great  pain.  Stretched  on  a  bed  of 
straw  extremely  hard,  she  passed  half  the 
night  without  sleep.  She  wept,  groaned, 
prayed  to  God,  who  at  last  sent  her  a  sweet 
and  soothing  sleep.  The  next  day  the  judge 
had  her  brought  again  before  his  tribunal.  As 
severity  had  answered  no  purpose,  he  en- 
deavoured to  draw  from  her  an  acknowledg- 
ment by  mildness  and  flattering  promises. 
"  You  have  incurred  the  penalty  of  death, 
you  have  deserved  to  perish  by  the  sword  of 
justice ;  but  confess  where  the  ring  is,  and 
nothing  will  be  done  to  you.  Consider  it 
well — the  choice  is  between  life  and  death." 

Still  Mary  stood  to  her  first  assertion.  The 
judge,  who  had  remarked  how  much  she  loved 
her  father,  added,  "  If  you  persist  in  conceal- 


46  THE    BASKET 

ing  the  truth,  if  you  will  not  spare  your  own 
life,  spare  at  least  that  of  your  aged  father ; 
would  you  see  his  head,  whitened  by  age,  cut 
off  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner?  Who* 
but  he  could  have  induced  you  to  tell  a  false- 
hood with  so  much  obstinacy  ?  Are  you  ig- 
norant that  his  life  as  well  as  yours  is  at 
stake?"  Terrified  at  this  threat,  Mary  nearly 
fainted.  "  Confess,"  said  the  judge,  "  that 
you  have  taken  the  ring.  A  single  word,  a 
syllable — only  say  yes — and  you  save  your 
life  and  that  of  your  father." 

This  temptation  was  great,  and  for  some 
time  Mary  was  silent.  It  was  a  moment  of 
dreadful  trial.  Satan  suggested  that  she 
could  say,  «*  I  took  the  ring,  but  I  lost  it  on 
the  road."  "  No,"  thought  she,  afterward, 
"no  !  it  is  better  to  adhere  to  the  truth.  It  is 
a  sin  to  lie.  Let  it  cost  me  what  it  will,  I 
will  not  depart  from  the  truth  even  to  save  my 
own  and  my  father's  life.  I  will  obey  God, 
and  trust  him  for  the  rest."  She  then  an- 
swered in  a  loud  but  tremulous  voice,  "  If  I 
say  1  had  the  ring,  it  would  be  a  lie,  and 
though  this  falsehood  should  save  my  life,  I 
would  not  utter  it.  But."  continued  she,  "  if 
blood  must  be  shed,  spare  at  least  the  white 
hairs  of  my  virtuous  father.  1  should  be 
most  happy  to  shed  my  blood  for  him." 

These  words  touched  the  heart  of  the 
whole  body  of  bystanders.  The  judge  him- 


O  F    F  L  0  W  E  R  S.  47 

self,  with  all  his  severity,  could  not  help  being 
moved :  he  remained  silent,  and  made  a  sign 
for  Mary  to  be  conducted  back  to  prison. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Mary's  Father  visits  her  in  Prison. 
THE  judge  found  himself  in  great  difficulty 
in  coming  to  a  decision.  "  To-day  is  the  third 
day,"  said  he,  "  and  we  have  advanced  no  far- 
ther than  the  first  hour.  If  I  foresaw  any  possi- 
bility that  the  ring  was  in  other  hands,  I  should 
believe  this  young  girl  innocent.  But  all  the 
circumstances  are  too  clearly  laid  down  against 
her.  It  is  impossible  that  it  can  be  otherwise. 
She  must  have  stolen  the  ring."  He  return- 
ed to  the  countess,  and  again  questioned  her 
as  to  the  most  minute  circumstances ;  Juliette 
was  also  examined  again  :  he  passed  the 
whole  day  in  reviewing  the  testimony ;  and 
weighing  each  word  that  Mary  uttered  in  her 
examination.  In  short,  it  was  already  very 
late  when  he  sent  to  the  prison  for  Mary's 
father  to  be  brought  to  his  house.  "James," 
said  he,  "  I  am  known  to  be  a  rigid  man,  but 
you  cannot  reproach  me  of  having  ever  inten- 
tionally injured  any  one.  You  will  believe,  I 
hope,  that  I  do  not  desire  the  death  of  your 
daughter ;  nevertheless,  all  the  circumstances 


48  THE    BASKET 

prove  she  must  have  committed  the  theft, 
and  the  law  requires  her  death.  The  tes- 
timony of  Juliette  gives  full  evidence  of  the 
fact.  Notwithstanding,  if  the  ring  was  re-' 
turned,  and  the  damage  thus  repaired,  we 
might  grant  Mary  a  pardon  in  considera- 
tion of  her  youth.  But  if  she  persists  with 
so  much  obstinacy  in  her  guilty  denial,  this 
excess  of  perverseness  must  ruin  her.  Go 
to  her,  James — insist  upon  her  returning  the 
ring,  and  I  pledge  my  word  that  then,  and 
only  then,  she  will  not  have  to  abide  the 
penalty  of  death,  but  will  be  discharged  with 
but  a  trifling  punishment.  You  are  her  father, 
and  have  unbounded  power  over  her.  If  you 
obtain  nothing,  what  must  be  our  conclusion 
but  that  you  are  an  accomplice,  and  have  par- 
ticipated in  the  crime  ?  And  I  repeat,  if  the 
ring  is  not  found,  I  pity  your  case." — "  I  will 
speak  as  you  desire  to  my  daughter,"  answer- 
ed James,  «*  but  that  she  has  not  stolen  the 
ring,  and  that  she  will  not  acknowledge  her- 
self guilty,  I  know  beforehand,  although  I 
will  employ  every  means  of  finding  out;  and 
if  it  is  necessary  that  she  perish  notwith- 
standing her  innocence,  it  is  a  favour  that  I 
can  behold  her  once  more  before  the  dreadful 
event." 

An  officer  was  sent  with  the  old  man  to  the 
prison  of  Mary:  he  sat  the  smoking  lamp 
upon  the  little  projection  of  wall  which  was 


OF    FLOWERS.  49 

in  one  corner  of  her  cell,  and  upon  which 
was  an  earthen  plate  containing  the  prisoner's 
supper,  with  an  earthen  pitcher  full  of  water. 
The  poor  girl  as  yet  had  eaten  nothing.  She 
was  lying  on  her  straw,  and  with  her  face 
turned  towards  the  wall ;  and  was  dozing,  but 
scarcely  had  she  opened  her  eyes  and  per- 
ceived the  pale  light  of  a  lamp,  than  she 
turned  over,  and  seeing  her  father,  uttered  a 
cry  of  joy,  and  raised  herself  with  a  precipita- 
tion which  caused  her  chains  to  resound. 
Then,  nearly  fainting,  she  threw  herself  upon 
his  neck.  The  old  man  sat  down  with  her 
upon  her  bed,  and  pressed  her  in  his  arms ; 
both  remained  for  some  time  silent,  and 
mingled  their  tears  together.  James  at  length 
broke  silence,  and  began  to  speak  as  his  com- 
mission required.  "  Ah  !  my  father,"  said 
Mary,  interrupting  him,  "  you  at  least  can- 
not doubt  my  innocence.  Alas  !"  continued 
she,  still  weeping,  "  is  there  no  one  but 
what  thinks  me  guilty  ;  no  one,  not  even  my 
father  ?  Believe,  dear  father,  that  I  am  inno- 
cent."— "  Be  composed,  my  dear  child,  I  do 
believe  you.  What  I  have  done  is  in  com- 
pliance with  the  order  I  received."  They 
again  remained  silent.  James  looked  at  Mary, 
and  saw  her  cheeks  pale  and  hollow,  with 
grief;  her  eyes  red,  and  swelled  with  weep- 
ing, her  hair  floated  in  disorder.  "  Poor 
child,"  said  he,  "  God  has  put  thee  to  a 


50  THE    BASKET 

severe  trial,  but  I  very  much  fear  the  most 
cruel,  the  most  dreadful  sufferings  are  yet  to 
come.  Alas  !  perhaps  the  head  of  my  young 
child  will  fall  by  the  hand  of  the  execution-* 
er." — "  Ah,  my  father,"  said  Mary,  "  I  care 

but  little  for  myself.    But  you "  — "  Fear 

nothing  for  me,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  fa- 
ther, "  I  run  no  risk." — "  Oh,"  cried  Mary, 
transported  with  joy,  and  without  allowing 
her  father  time  to  finish,  "  if  that  is  the  case, 
my  heart  is  relieved  of  a  great  weight ;  all  is 
well ;  my  father,  be  assured  I  fear  not  death.  I 
shall  find  my  God,  my  Saviour,  and  I  shall 
see  my  mother  also  in  heaven.  Oh  !  what  a 
happiness  will  this  be." 

These  words  made  a  deep  impression  on 
the  heart  of  the  old  man,  and  he  wept  like  a 
child.  "  Well,  God  be  praised,"  said  he, 
clasping  his  hands,  "  God  be  praised  for  the 
submissive  disposition  I  find  you  in.  It  is 
hard,  without  doubt,  very  hard,  for  a  man 
bowed  down  with  the  weight  of  years,  for  a 
tender  father,  thus  to  lose  his  only  child,  the 
child  of  his  love,  and  his  only  consolation ; 
his  last  support,  and  the  joy  of  his  old  age. 
However,"  continued  he,  in  a  broken  voice, 
"  may  the  will  of  the  Lord  be  done."  A  torrent 
of  tears  interrupted  these  words.  "  Yet  one 
word,"  said  he,  a  moment  after.  *«  Juliette  has 
deposed  against  you.  She  has  declared,  on 
her  oath,  to  have  seen  the  ring  in  your  hands. 


OF    FLOWERS.  51 

It  is  her  testimony  that  condemns  you,  if  you 
are  to  perish.  But  you  pardon  her  ?  Is  it  not 
so  ?  you  do  not  take  with  you  any  feeling  of 
hatred  ?  Alas  !  even  upon  this  straw,  in  the 
bottom  of  this  dark  cell,  loaded  with  heavy 
chains,  you  are  still  more  happy  than  she 
in  the  palace  of  her  master,  clothed  with  silk 
and  lace,  and  surrounded  with  attention.  It 
is  better  to  die  innocent  than  to  live  disho- 
noured. Pardon  her,  Mary,  as  thy  Saviour 
pardoned  his  enemies  ;  do  you  pardon  her?" 
Mary  assured  him  that  she  did.  "  Well," 
said  her  father,  who  heard  the  officer  coming 
to  separate  them,  "  I  recommend  you  to  God 
and  his  grace,  and  if  you  are  not  to  see  me 
again, — if  this  is  the  last  time  I  am  permitted 
to  hold  converse  with  you,  rny  daughter,  at 
least  I  will  not  be  long  in  following  you  to 
heaven  ;  for  I  feel  that  I  shall  not  survive  this 
parting."  The  officer  warned  the  old  man 
that  it  was  necessary  to  depart.  Mary  wished 
to  retain  him,  and  held  him  in  her  arms  with 
all  her  strength ;  but  her  father  was  obliged 
to  disengage  himself  as  gently  as  he  could,  and 
Mcry  fell  insensible  on  her  bed.  James  was 
brcught  again  before  the  judge.  As  soon  as 
he  entered,  he  raised  his  hands  to  heaven  and 
cried  out,  almost  beside  himself,  *«  She  is 
innocent." — "  I  am  disposed,"  said  the  judge, 
*'  to  believe  it ;  but  unfortunately  I  cannot  judge 
from  your  testimony,  nor  that  of  your  daugh* 


52  THE    BASKET 

ter.  I  must  pronounce  sentence  from  the 
nature  of  the  testimony,  and  according  to 
what  is  prescribed,  even  to  the  utmost  rigour 
of  the  law." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

The  Judgment  of  the  Court  pronounced  and  executed. 

As  may  well  be  imagined,  all  were  curious 
to  know  what  would  be  the  issue  of  this  un- 
fortunate affair  in  which  Mary  was  involved. 
Every  well  disposed  person  trembled  for  her 
life,  for  at  this  time  the  crime  of  theft  was 
punished  with  great  rigour,  and  the  penalty  of 
death  was  often  inflicted  for  the  theft  of  a  sum 
not  equal  to  the  twentieth  part  of  the  value  of 
the  ring.  The  count  wished  for  nothing  so 
much  as  to  find  Mary  innocent.  He  himself 
read  all  the  testimony,  and  conversed  for  hours 
at  the  time  with  the  judge,  without  being  able 
to  convince  himself  of  Mary's  innocence. 
The  two  countesses,  the  mother  and  daughter, 
begged  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  that  Mary 
should  not  suffer  death,  while  her  aged  father 
spent  days  and  nights  supplicating  unceasingly 
the  Lord,  that  he  would  be  pleased  to  con- 
vince the  world  of  the  innocence  of  his 
daughter. 

Whenever   Mary   heard  the  officer   enter 


OF    FLOWERS.  53 

\vith  his  keys,  she  thought  that  they  were 
going  to  announce  to  her  the  time  of  her 
death.  Meanwhile  the  executioner  was  en- 
gaged in  preparation  for  the  punishment.  Ju- 
liette in  walking  saw  him  engaged  in  this 
work,  and  her  heart  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief.  Horror  seemed  to  deprive  her  of  her 
presence  of  mind  ;  and  when  she  sat  down  to 
supper,  she  could  touch  nothing,  and  every 
one  saw  that  she  was  not  in  her  ordinary 
spirits.  She  went  to  bed,  but  her  sleep  was 
disturbed,  and  more  than  once  in  her  dreams 
she  saw  the  bloody  head  of  Mary.  Her  re- 
morse gave  her  no  rest  neither  day  nor  night, 
but  the  heart  of  this  wicked  creature  was  too 
hardened  to  confess  her  falsehoods,  and  she 
was  determined  not  to  repair  her  fault  by  a 
sincere  acknowledgment. 

At  length  the  judge  pronounced  the  sen- 
tence. In  consideration  of  Mary's  extreme 
youth  and  (until  now)  unblemished  reputation, 
the  sentence  of  death  was  changed  to  that 
of  the  banishment  of  herself  and  father,  for 
he  considered  her  father,  whether  by  the  act, 
or  whether  by  the  bad  education  he  had  given 
her,  had  rendered  himself  an  accomplice  of 
her  crime.  Their  possessions  were  to  be 
sold  to  contribute  as  far  as  they  could  to  the 
reparation  of  the  loss  which  the  count  had 
sustained,  and  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the 
court.  This  sentence  was  to  be  carried  into 
E  2 


54  THE    BASKET 

execution  the  next  morning  at  the  break  of 
day. 

Mary  and  her  father  passed  before  the  cas- 
tle gate,  conducted  by  an  officer,  when  Ju- 
liette came  out.  Seeing  that  the  affair,  con- 
trary to  all  expectation,  had  taken  a  different 
turn  from  what  she  had  anticipated,  this  cun- 
ning girl,  destitute  of  every  good  sentiment, 
regained  her  gayety.  She  had  now  accom- 
plished exactly  what  she  wanted.  She  al- 
ways feared  that  in  the  end  Mary  would  sup- 
plant her.  This  fear  was  now  dissipated. 
Her  first  aversion  against  James's  daughter 
revived,  and  she  rejoiced  at  her  misfortune ; 
in  fact,  her  bad  heart  had  gained  the  ascen- 
dency. The  countess,  seeing  Mary's  basket 
upon  the  sideboard,  had  said  to  Juliette, 
"  Take  away  that  basket,  that  I  may  never 
have  it  before  my  eyes.  It  arouses  in  me  re- 
collections so  painful,  that  I  cannot  behold  it 
but  with  grief."  Juliette  had  taken  it,  and 
was  going  away  with  it  under  her  arm — 
"  Stop,"  said  she,  "here's  your  present,  you 
can  take  it  again  ;  my  mistress  wishes  nothing 
from  such  people  as  you.  Your  glory  has 
pas^Al  away  with  the  flowers  for  which  you 
were  so  well  paid,  and  it  is  a  great  pleasure 
for  me  to  give  you  your  packages." 

She  threw  the  basket  at  Mary's  feet,  re- 
entered  the  castle  with  a  scornful  smile,  and 
shut  the  door  with  great  violence  after  her. 


OF    FLOWERS.  55 

Mary  took  the  basket  in  silence,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  and  continued  her  way.  Her  father 
had  not  even  a  cane  to  support  his  tottering 
steps.  Mary  possessed  nothing  but  the  bas- 
ket. She  turned  more  than  a  hundred  times, 
her  eyes  wet  with  tears,  towards  her  paternal 
roof,  until  the  roof,  the  castle,  and  even  the 
steeple  of  the  church  were  hidden  by  a  hill 
covered  with  trees,  and  disappeared  from  her 
sight.  When  the  officer  had  conducted  them 
to  the  limits  of  the  county,  considerably  ad- 
vanced in  the  forest,  the  old  man,  overwhelm- 
ed with  anxiety  and  grief,  seated  himself  upon 
the  moss  under  the  shade  of  an  aged  oak. 
"  Come,  my  daughter,"  said  he,  and  as  he 
spoke  he  took  Mary  in  his  arms,  joined  her 
hands  in  his,  and  raising  them  to  heaven,  said, 
"  before  we  go  on,  let  us  thank  God,  who  has 
taken  us  from  a  narrow  and  obscure  prison, 
and  who  allows  us  to  enjoy  freely  the  sight 
of  heaven  and  the  freshness  of  the  air — that 
God  who  has  saved  our  lives,  and  who  has 
returned  you,  my  dear  child,  to  the  embraces 
of  your  father."  The  aged  man  then  fell  on 
his  knees,  and  with  a  deep  gratitude  of  heart, 
commended  them  both  to  the  protection  of 
their  heavenly  Father.  After  they  had  prayed 
thus  together  (for  Mary  repeated  from  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  every  word  which  her 
father  had  uttered),  they  felt  a  wonderful  con- 
solation ;  and  a  feeling  of  courage  and  ex- 


56  THE    BASKET 

traordinary  joy  was  shed  over  their  hearts. 
At  that  moment  God's  providence  began  to 
favour  them.  Anthony,  an  old  huntsman 
with  whom  James  had  been  in  service  when  * 
he  accompanied  the  count  in  his  travels,  had 
set  out  before  daybreak  to  hunt  a  stag.  "  God 
'bless  you,  James,"  said  he  ;  "  it  does  me  good 
to  hear  your  voice :  I  am  not  then  mistaken, 
it  is  true  that  they  have  banished  you,  but  it 
is  hard  to  see  oneself  obliged  in  one's  old 
days  to  quit  one's  country." 

"  As  far  as  the  arch  of  heaven  extends," 
answered  James,  "  the  earth  is  the  Lord's, 
and  everywhere  the  watchful  kindness  of  the 
Lord  is  upon  us.  Our  country  is  in  heaven." 
— "  Tell  me,"  answered  the  huntsman,  in  an 
accent  of  pity,  "have  they  banished  you  just 
as  you  are,  without  giving  you  the  necessary 
clothing  for  such  a  journey  ?" — "  He  who 
clothes  the  flowers  of  the  field  will  know 
how  to  provide  for  us  also,"  answered  James. 
"  Even  so — you  are  supplied  at  least  with 
money  ?"  said  the  kind-hearted  huntsman. 
"  We  have  a  good  conscience,  and  with  that 
we  are  richer  than  if  the  stone  upon  which 
I  sit/vvas  gold.  My  father  was  a  basket- 
maker,  and  he  taught  me  his  trade  besides 
that  of  gardening,  in  order  that  during  the 
winter  I  might  have  a  useful  occupation. 
This  has  done  more  for  me  and  has  provided- 
better  for  my  future  prosperity  than  if  he  had 


OFFLOWERS.  57 

left  me  three  thousand  crowns.  A  good 
conscience,  health  of  body,  and  an  honourable 
trade,  are  the  best  and  surest  fortune  that  we 
can  have  on  earth." — "  God  be  praised,"  an- 
swered the  huntsman,  "  that  you  can  bear 
your  misfortunes  so  well.  I  am  forced  to 
confess  that  you  are  right.  It  seems  to  me 
that  you  have  yet  a  good  resource  in  garden- 
ing ;  but  where  will  you  go  to  get  employ- 
ment ?" — "  Very  far,"  answered  James, 
"  where  we  are  not  known,  where  God  will 
conduct  us." — "  James,"  said  the  huntsman, 
"  take  this  knotty  cane  :  I  supplied  myself 
with  it  to  assist  me  in  climbing  up  the  moun- 
tain, but  I  can  get  another — and  here,"  con- 
tinued he,  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  little 
leather  purse,  "  in  it  is  some  money,  that  I 
received  in  payment  for  some  wood  in  the 
hamlet  where  I  passed  the  night." 

"  The  cane  I  accept,  and  I  will  keep  it  in 
remembrance  of  a  generous  man,  but  as  for 
the  money,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  accept 
it :  it  is  a  payment  for  wood,  and  it  belongs  to 
the  count." — "  Good  old  James,"  said  he, 
"  do  not  trouble  yourself  about  that,  the  count 
has  already  received  his  money.  Some  years 
past  a  poor  old  man  who  had  lost  his  cow 
could  not  pay  for  the  wood  which  he  had 
bought.  I  advanced  him  the  sum,  and  thought 
no  more  of  it.  Now  he  has  extricated  him- 
self from  his  difficulties,  and  yesterday,  at  the 


58  THE     BASKET 

moment  when  I  least  expected  it,  he  returned 
it  to  me  with  thanks — it  is  truly  a  present 
which  God  sends  you." — "  Well,"  said  he,4 
«*  I  accept  it,  and  may  God  return  it  to  you. 
See,  Mary,  with  what  goodness  God  provides 
for  us  even  in  the  commencement  of  our 
dreary  banishment.  We  have  not  as  yet 
passed  the  limits  of  the  county,  and  see  He 
sends  us  our  good  old  friend,  who  has  offered 
me  a  travelling  cane  and  who  has  given  us 
money.  I  had  not  time  to  quit  this  seat  be- 
fore Heaven  has  heard  my  prayer.  So,  my 
daughter,  courage  ;  God  will  watch  over  us." 
The  old  huntsman  melted  into  tears,  then 
took  leave  of  them.  "  Farewell,  honest 
James,"  said  he,  "  farewell,  good  Mary,"  ex- 
tending his  hand  to  both,  "  I  always  thought 
you  innocent,  and  think  so  still.  Do  not  de- 
spair. Do  not  let  your  probity  fail  you  ;  yes  ! 
yes !  whosoever  does  well,  and  has  confi- 
dence in  God,  may  calculate  on  divine  pro- 
tection. May  God  be  with  you."  The 
huntsman  left  them,  and  bent  his  steps  to- 
wards Eichbourg.  James  got  up,  took  his 
daughter  by  the  hand,  and  they  continued 
their  way  across  the  forest,  not  knowing  at 
what  spot  they  would  stop— for  they  had 
now  no  friend  but  God. 


OF    FLOWERS.  59 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

James  and  Mary  compelled  to  beg,  but  at  length  find 
shelter. 

MARY  and  her  father  still  continued  their 
painful  journey,  and  had  already  walked  more 
than  twenty  miles  without  being  able  to  find  a 
night's  lodging.  The  little  money  which  they 
had  was  nearly  exhausted,  and  they  knew  not 
where  to  obtain  subsistence.  It  cost  them  a 
great  trial  to  solicit  charity,  but  they  were 
obliged  to  submit  to  it.  They  presented 
themselves  before  a  great  number  of  doors, 
but  they  met  with  scarcely  any  thing  but  re- 
pulses, accompanied  by  abuse.  Sometimes 
they  could  only  get  a  little  piece  of  dry  bread, 
and  some  water  from  the  nearest  fountain. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  they  received  a  little  soup 
or  some  greens,  and  here  and  there  some  re- 
mains of  meat  or  pastry.  After  having  passed 
several  days  in  this  manner,  they  were  very 
glad  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  a  barn. 

One  day  the  road  appeared  endless,  as  they 
travelled  between  hills  and  mountains  covered 
with  trees,  and  they  had  walked  a  long  time 
without  seeing  any  village,  when  the  old  man 
began  to  feel  very  weak.  He  fell,  pale  and. 
speechless,  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  covered  with 
pines,  on  a  heap  of  dried  leaves.  Mary  was 
overcome  with  fear  and  anxiety,  and  over- 


60  THEBASRET 

whelmed  with  grief.  In  vain  did  she  seek  a  lit- 
tle fresh  water  in  the  neighbourhood,  she  could 
not  find  the  least  drop ;  in  vain  did  she  cry  for 
assistance,  the  echo  alone  answered  her.  On* 
whatever  side  she  looked,  no  house  was  to 
be  seen.  Although  almost  worn  out  with 
fatigue,  she  ran  to  the  top  of  the  hill  in  hopes 
of  having  a  better  view  of  the  surrounding 
country.  At  last  she  discovered  behind  the 
hill,  and  quite  at  its  foot,  a  cottage,  surrounded 
by  rich  fields,  and  green  meadows,  and  com- 
pletely shut  in  by  the  forest.  She  ran  down, 
and  arrived  quite  out  of  breath  at  this  hut. 
With  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  asked  assistance 
in  a  broken  voice.  In  God's  providence  both 
the  peasant  and  his  wife,  who  were  advanced 
in  years,  were  kind-hearted  people.  The 
paleness,  and  tears,  and  agony  of  the  poor 
girl  touched  their  sensibility.  "  Put  a  horse 
to  the  little  wagon,"  said  the  farmer's  wife  to 
her  husband,  "  we  will  bring  this  sick  old 
man  here."  The  farmer  went  out  to  get  his 
horse  and  to  harness  it ;  and  his  wife  took 
two  mattresses,  an  earthen  pitcher  of  fresh 
water,  and  a  bottle  of  vinegar.  As  soon  as 
Mary  knew  that  the  wagon  would  be  obliged 
to  go  round  the  hill,  and  that  it  was  a  good 
half  hour's  ride,  she  went  before  with  the 
water  and  vinegar  the  same  path  by  which 
she  had  come,  and  by  this  means  arrived 
sooner  where  she  had  left  her  father.  He  had 


OF     FLOWERS.  61 

recovered  a  little,  and  was  sitting  at  the  foot 
of  a  pine  tree,  and  it  was  with  great  joy  that 
he  saw  the  return  of  his  daughter,  whose  ab- 
sence had  caused  him  some  anxiety.  As  soon 
as  the  farmer  and  his  wife  arrived,  they  placed 
him  in  the  wagon,  and  carried  him  to  the 
farm,  where  they  gave  him  a  neat  little  room, 
a  closet,  and  a  kitchen  which  were  then  unoc- 
cupied. The  farmer's  wife  made  him  a  nice 
bed,  and  a  bench  was  sufficient  for  Mary,  who 
would  not  quit  her  father's  pillow.  The  in- 
disposition of  James  was  but  a  weakness  oc- 
casioned by  bad  food,  bad  rest,  and  the  fatigue 
of  the  journey.  The  good  farmer's  wife 
spared  nothing  to  relieve  the  sick  man,  and 
even  sacrificed  some  of  their  usual  gratifica- 
tions. These  kind  people  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  going  every  year  to  a  fair  in  the  neigh- 
bouring village,  but  they  agreed  this  time  to 
remain  at  home,  and  to  employ  the  money 
which  they  would  have  spent  in  procuring 
medicines  and  delicacies  for  the  invalid.  Mary 
thanked  them  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh  ! 
then,"  said  she.  "there  are  kind  people  every- 
where, and  it  is  often  in  the  most  unlikely 
places  that  we  find  the  most  compassionate 
hearts."  As  the  old  man  grew  better,  Mary 
was  constantly  seated  beside  her  father's  bed  ; 
but  she  did  not  sit  there  idle — she  had  not 
her  match  for  knitting  and  sewing,  and  in 
these  employments  she  occupied  herself  with 
F 


62  THE    BASKET 

great  industry  for  the  farmer's  household. 
She  did  not  give  herself  a  moment's  rest. 
The  farmer's  wife  was  enchanted  with  her 
taste  for  work,  and  her  modest  and  reserved* 
demeanour.  By  the  great  care  which  they 
had  taken  of  James,  and  for  the  excellent 
food  which  they  had  given  him,  he  was  so 
far  restored  as  to  be  able  to  sit  up,  and  as 
idleness  had  always  been  insupportable  to 
him,  he  began  again  to  resume  his  basket- 
making.  Mary,  as  before,  gathered  for  him 
branches  of  willow  and  hazel  twigs,  and  his 
first  production  was  a  pretty  little  convenient 
basket,  which  he  offered  to  the  farmer's  wife 
as  a  token  of  gratitude. 

He  had  exactly  guessed  her  taste.  The 
basket  was  elegant  but  strong  and  solid  ; 
branches  of  willow,  stained  with  deep  red  and 
interwoven  in  the  cover,  formed  the  initials  of 
the  farmer's  wife,  and  the  date.  The  border 
was  formed  of  green,  brown,  and  yellow 
branches,  representing  a  cottage  thatched 
with  straw,  on  each  side  of  which  was  a  pine 
tree.  This  pretty  basket  was  the  admiration 
of  the  whole  house.  The  farmer's  wife  re- 
ceived the  present  with  great  joy,  and  the 
allusion  made  to  her  farm,  which  was  called 
the  "  Pine  Cottage,"  gave  her  peculiar  plea- 
sure. When  James  felt  himself  quite  reco- 
vered, he  said  to  his  hosts,  "  We  have  beeft 
long  enough  a  burden  to  you — it  is  time  I 


OF    FLOWERS.  63 

should  go  and  seek  my  fortune  elsewhere." — 
"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  good 
James  ?"  said  the  farmer,  taking  him  by  the 
hand.  "  I  hope  we  have  not  offended  you. 
Why  then  would  you  wish  to  leave  us  ?  The 
year  is  already  very  far  advanced.  Do  you  not 
see  the  leaves  on  the  trees,  how  yellow  they  are 
turning  ?  Winter  is  at  our  doors.  Do  you 
wish  to  be  sick  again  ?"  James  assured  them 
he  had  no  other  motive  for  leaving  them  than 
the  fear  of  being  troublesome. 

"  Troublesome,  indeed,"  said  the  farmer, 
"  don't  distress  yourself  about  that — in  the 
little  room  where  you  are,  you  cannot  incom- 
mode us  in  any  way,  and  you  gain  enough  to 
supply  your  wants." — "  Yes,  yes,"  added  the 
farmer's  wife,  "  Mary  alone  earns  enough 
with  her  needle  and  her  knitting,  and  you, 
James,  if  you  wish  to  continue  to  exercise 
the  trade  of  basket-maker,  be  easy.  Not 
long  since,  when  I  went  to  the  pine  mill,  I 
took  with  me  your  pretty  basket.  All  the 
countrywomen  that  were  there  wished  to  have 
one  like  it.  I  will  undertake  to  procure  cus- 
tomers. You  will  not  soon  be  in  want  of 
work." 

James  and  Mary  consented  to  remain,  and 
their  hosts  expressed  a  sincere  pleasure  at  this 
determination. 


64  THE    BASKET 

CHAPTER    IX. 

The  happy  Life  of  Mary  in  the  Pine  Cottage. 

JAMES  and  Mary  then  fixed  themselves  in 
their  habitation,  their  rooms  furnished  in  the 
most  simple  style,  and  only  with  what  was 
necessary.  Mary  thought  herself  very  happy 
in  being  again  able  to  prepare  the  repasts  of 
her  father,  and  they  led  together  a  life  of  con- 
tentment. While  James  was  making  baskets, 
and  Mary  was  occupied  with  knitting  and 
sewing,  they  amused  each  other  with  familiar 
conversation.  Sometimes  they  spent  their 
evening  in  the  front  room,  and  it  was  with 
great  pleasure  that  their  hosts,  with  the  other 
inmates  of  the  house,  listened  to  the  judicious 
reflections  and  instructive  recitals  of  father 
James,  as  they  called  him.  Winter,  with  all 
its  severity,  passed  with  them  in  the  most 
agreeable  manner.  Quite  near  their  house 
was  a  large  garden,  which  was  not  the  best 
kept  in  the  world  ;  the  farmer  and  his  wife  had 
too  much  .to  do  in  the  field  to  give  to  gardening 
the  necessary  time,  and  besides  it  was  an  art 
with  which  they  were  not  familiar.  James 
undertook  to  make  of  it  a  pretty  flower  garden. 

He  had  made  his  preparations  during  the 
autumn,  and  scarcely  had  the  warmth  of 
spring  dissipated  the  winter's  snow  when  he 
began  his  work,  assisted  by  Mary,  and  they 


OFFLOWERS.  65 

were  employed  from  morning  until  quite  late 
in  the  evening.  The  garden  was  divided  into 
compartments  ;  the  beds  planted  with  all  sorts 
of  vegetables,  and  bordered  with  gravel-walks. 
Mary  had  no  rest  until  her  father  brought 
from  the  village  (where  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  buying  the  seeds  of  vegetables)  rose-trees, 
tulip  and  lily-roots,  and  various  kinds  of  gar- 
den shrubbery.  She  cultivated  the  most  beauti- 
ful flowers,  and  among  them  were  some  which 
had  never  been  seen  in  this  deserted  and  iso- 
lated place.  The  garden  soon  exhibited  such 
a  burst  of  verdure  and  richness,  that  the  valley, 
until  now  overgrown  with  dark  forest  trees, 
assumed  quite  a  smiling  appearance.  The 
neighbouring  orchard  also  appeared  to  thrive 
much  better  under  James's  hand,  and  brought 
forth  fruit  in  greater  abundance. 

The  blessing  of  Heaven  was  upon  every 
thing  he  undertook.  The  old  gardener  had 
regained  his  good  humour ;  he  began  again  to 
make  his  remarks  on  the  flowers,  but  without 
recurring  to  his  old  observations,  he  had  al- 
ways something  new  to  say.  During  the  first 
spring-days  Mary  had  sought  for  violets  along 
the  thicket  which  bordered  their  rustic  ground. 
She  wished,  as  usual,  to  offer  the  first  bunch 
of  them  to  her  father.  At  last  she  found 
some  beautiful  ones  which  had  a  delightful 
perfume,  and  ran,  transported  with  joy,  to  pre- 
sent them  to  him.  "  Very  well,"  said  her 


66  THE    BASKET 

father,  "  seek  and  ye  shall  find  ;  but  listen," 
continued  he,  "it  is  to  be  remarked  that  these 
charming  flowers,  these  beautiful  flowers,, 
delight  to  grow  among  brambles,  and  it  is 
here  that  we  can  find  a  lesson  for  ourselves. 
Who  would  have  thought  that  in  coming  to  this 
dark  valley,  all  covered  with  woods,  and  this 
thatched  cottage,  that  we  should  here  find 
happiness  ?  Well,  so  it  is, — there  is  no  situa- 
tion in  life  so  thorny  but  that  we  may  therein 
discover  a  peaceful  happiness  hid  among  the 
thorns.  Have  always,  my  child,  a  firm  trust 
in  God,  and  to  whatever  adversity  you  may 
be  exposed,  inward  peace  will  never  forsake 
you."  One  day  the  wife  of  one  of  the  vil- 
lagers came  from  the  city  to  buy  some  flax  of 
the  farmer,  and  brought  her  little  boy  with 
her.  While  she  was  engaged  in  examining 
the  flax,  in  choosing  and  bargaining,  the  child, 
having  found  the  garden  gate  open,  had  gone 
in,  and  began  immediately  to  plunder  a  full 
blown  rose-bush,  but  he  scratched  himself 
terribly  with  the  thorns.  The  mother  and  the 
farmer's  wife  ran  to  him  as  soon  as  they  heard 
his  cries.  James  and  Mary  ran  also.  The 
child,  with  his  little  hands  all  bloody,  exclaim- 
ed against  the  rose-bush  for  having  deceiv- 
ed him  by  its  pretty  flowers.  "  It  is  some- 
times thus  with  us  also,"  said  James,  "  big 
children.  There  is  no  pleasure  which  has  not 
its  thorns  as  well  as  this  rose.  Wre  run  to- 


OF    FLOWERS.  67 

wards  it  as  if  to  seize  it  with  both  hands. 
One  is  led  away  by  a  taste  for  dancing  or  for 
play.  Another  by  a  taste  for  drink,  or  other 
vices  still  more  shameful.  Then  we  begin  to 
weep  and  lament,  and  to  detest  pleasure.  Do 
not  let  us  then  be  foolishly  dazzled  by  the 
show  of  fine  roses.  Man  is  endowed  with  a 
soul  to  save  ;  it  is  not  then  necessary  that  we 
should  blindly  abandon  ourselves  to  our  pro- 
pensities. We  ought,  without  ceasing,  to  use 
all  diligence  to  gain  eternal  life." 

One  beautiful  morning  which  succeeded  a 
two  days'  rain,  Mary  and  her  father  went  into 
the  garden,  and  found  the  first  lilies  in  bloom, 
diffusing  all  their  charms  and  all  their  magni- 
ficence in  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  Mary 
called  all  the  people  of  the  house,  who  for  a 
long  time  were  curious  to  see  the  lilies  in 
bloom. '  They  were  in  an  ecstasy  of  admira- 
tion. "  What  purity  !  what  whiteness  !  such 
neatness  entirely  without  blemish,  not  a  spot !" 
— "  No,  not  one,"  said  James,  agitated,  «*  and 
could  it  please  Heaven  that  the  consciences  of 
men  were  as  exempt,  it  would  be  a  pleasing 
sight  for  God  and  angels.  A  pure  heart  only 
can  claim  connexion  with  heaven.  How 
straight  is  the  stem  ;  how  gracefully  and  nobly 
it  raises  itself,  as  a  finger  that  points  to  hea- 
ven," added  James.  "  I  am  happy  to  see 
this  flower  in  the  garden.  There  ought  not 
to  be  a  garden  in  the  country  where  the  lily 


68  THE    BASKET 

is  not  found.  Inclined  as  we  are  continually 
to  lean  towards  earth,  we  are  prompted  to  for- 
get heaven.  The  lily,  which  is  so  upright,  . 
seems  to  teach  us,  that  in  the  midst  of  our 
troubles  and  labours,  we  should  raise  our 
thoughts  towards  the  celestial  kingdom,  and 
aspire  to  something  better  than  the  produc- 
tions of  earth.  Every  plant,"  continued  he, 
earnestly,  and  with  a  penetrating  look,  "  even 
the  most  delicate  herbs  have  a  tendency  to 
raise  themselves,  and  if  there  are  any  too 
weak  for  self  support,  as  are  these  beans,  and 
this  hop  which  we  see  in  the  midst  of  this 
hedge,  it  entwines  itself  and  clambers  around 
this  pole.  It  is  unworthy  of  man  that  he 
alone  in  his  desires  and  his  hopes  should 
wish  to  grovel  for  ever  in  the  earth." 

James  was  one  day  employed  in  placing 
young  plants  in  a  new-made  bed,  Mary  was 
weeding  at  a  little  distance  from  him.  "  This 
double  labour,"  said  the  father,  "  should  be 
the  only  occupation  of  all  our  life.  Our 
heart  is  a  garden  which  the  good  God  has 
given  us  to  cultivate.  It  is  necessary  that  we 
should  unceasingly  apply  ourselves  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  good  and  the  extraction  of  the 
evil  which  might  there  take  root.  Otherwise 
it  is  but  uncultivated  ground.  But  let  us 
scrupulously  fulfil  these  two  duties,  and  to 
this  end  let  us  implore  the  assistance  and 
blessing  of  that  God  who  makes  the  sun  to 


OF    FLOWERS.  69 

shine,  the  dew  and  rain  to  fall,  the  plants  to 
grow,  and  the  fruit  to  ripen.  Then  will  our 
hearts  be  a  most  delicious  garden,  and  we 
shall  possess  a  paradise  within  ourselves."  It 
was  thus  that  James  and  Mary  led  an  active 
and  industrious  life,  mingling  their  instructive 
conversations  with  their  innocent  pleasures. 
Three  springs  and  three  summers  had  glided 
away,  and  the  happy  days  they  had  spent  at 
the  Pine  Cottage  had  almost  caused  them  to 
forget  their  past  misfortunes.  But  at  the  re- 
turn of  autumn  they  saw  the  chrisanthemums 
displaying  their  red  and  blue  flowers,  the  last 
ornaments  of  the  garden.  The  leaves  of  the 
trees  were  clothed  in  variegated  shades,  ajid 
the  garden  was  preparing  for  repose  during 
the  winter.  James  felt  sensibly  the  diminu- 
tion of  his  strength,  and  felt  more  than  once 
very  uncomfortable.  He  however  concealed 
his  feelings  from  Mary,  fearing  to  distress 
her ;  but  all  his  observations  on  the  flowers 
were  of  a  melancholy  cast,  and  Mary,  who 
observed  it,  felt  it  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart.  One  day  she  observed  a  rose  which 
appeared  to  be  waiting  until  autumn  to  bloom. 
She  wished  to  gather  it,  but  the  leaves  of  the 
purplish  flower  fell  off  in  her  hand.  "  So  it 
is  with  man,"  said  her  father.  '*  In  youth, 
we  resemble  a  rose  newly  opened,  but  our 
life  fades  as  the  rose  :  scarcely  is  it  matured 
ere  it  is  passed.  Pride  not  yourself,  my 


70  THE    BASKET 

dear  child,  upon  the  beauty  of  the  body,  it  is 
vain  and  fragile ;  aspire  to  the  beauty  of  the 
soul,  and  piety  which  will  never  wither."  One . 
day,  towards  evening,  James  ascended  a  ladder 
to  gather  some  apples.  He  handed  them  to 
Mary,  who  arranged  them  in  a  basket.  "  How 
cold,"  said  he,  "  this  autumn  wind  is  which 
whistles  over  this  stubble  field ;  how  it  plays 
with  the  yellow  leaves  and  my  white  hairs. 
I  am  in  my  autumn,  my  dear  Mary,  and  soon 
you  will  be  too.  Try  to  resemble  this  excel- 
lent tree,  which  produces  fruit  so  excellent, 
and  in  so  great  abundance.  Try  to  please 
the  Master  of  this  great  garden,  which  is 
called  the  world."  Mary  was  sowing  seed 
for  the  following  spring.  "  One  day  will 
come,"  said  the  old  man,  "  when  they  will 
put  us  in  the  ground  as  you  are  putting  those 
seeds ;  it  will  cover  us.  But  console  your- 
self, my  dear  Mary,  soon  the  grain  is  en- 
veloped in  the  earth :  when  it  is  animated,  if 
I  may  so  speak,  it  sprouts  from  the  earth  in 
the  form  of  a  beautiful  flower,  and  raises  it- 
self triumphantly  from  the  place  where  it 
was  buried.  We  also  shall  rise  one  day  from 
our  tombs  with  splendour  and  magnificence. 
Think  of  the  future,  my  dear  Mary,  when 
you  will  follow  me  to  the  tomb.  In  the 
flowers  which  you  will  undoubtedly  plant  on 
my  tomb,  see  the  image  of  the  resurrection 
and  immortal  life." 


OF     FLOWERS.  71 

CHAPTER   X. 

The  Father  of  Mary  is  taken  sick. 

AT  the  beginning  of  the  winter,  which 
threatened  to  be  very  severe,  and  which  had 
already  covered  the  mountain  and  valley  with 
a  very  deep  snow,  old  father  James  was 
taken  sick.  Mary  begged  him  to  allow  the 
physician  of  the  neighbouring  village  to  come 
and  see  him ;  and  immediately  the  farmer, 
who  was  always  on  the  alert,  went  for  him  in 
a  sleigh.  The  physician  wrote  his  prescrip- 
tion, and  Mary  walked  with  him  as  far  as  the 
door  to  ask  him  if  he  had  any  hope  of  her  fa- 
ther's recovery.  The  physician  answered 
that  he  was  in  no  immediate  danger,  but  that 
his  disease  would  become  a  consumption,  and 
that,  especially  at  his  age,  he  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  recover.  At  this  intelligence  Mary 
nearly  fainted.  She  wept,  she  sobbed,  and 
could  hardly  be  comforted.  However,  she 
wiped  her  tears,  and  endeavoured  to  appear 
calm  before  she  went  to  her  father,  for  fear  of 
distressing  him.  Mary  attended  her  father 
with  all  the  care  that  a  good  daughter  could 
bestow  on  a  most  beloved  parent.  She  could 
read  in  his  eyes  all  that  he  wanted.  She 
watched  whole  nights  near  his  bed.  Did  any 
wish  to  relieve  her  for  fear  that  she  herself 
would  be  sick,  and  if  she,  after  much  persua- 


72  THE    BASKET 

sion,  consented  to  rest  for  a  few  moments  on 
her  bench,  it  happened  very  rarely  that  she 
ever  closed  her  eyes.  If  her  father  coughed, 
she  trembled ;  if  he  made  the  least  stir,  she ' 
immediately  approached  him  softly  and  on 
tip-toe  to  know  how  he  was.  She  prepared 
and  brought  to  him,  with  the  most  delicate 
attention,  the  food  which  best  suited  his  situa- 
tion. She  arranged  his  -pillow,  read  to  him, 
and  prayed  with  him  continually.  Often 
when  he  dozed  for  a  little  while,  she  would 
stand  by  his  bed  with  her  hands  clasped  and 
her  tearful  eyes  raised  to  heaven. 

Mary  had  a  little  money  which  she  had 
saved  from  the  work  of  her  own  hands.  It 
was  the  little  she  had  earned  in  spending  very 
often  half  the  night  in  sewing  and  knitting. 
This  she  made  use  of  to  the  very  last  penny 
in  procuring  for  her  father  all  that  she  thought 
would  be  of  any  service.  The  pious  old 
man,  although  he  felt  himself  occasionally  a 
little  stronger,  was  only  too  sure  that  he  was 
on  his  death-bed.  But  he  wras  calm  and 
perfectly  resigned.  He  spoke  of  his  ap- 
proaching death  with  the  greatest  serenity. 
"  Ah  !"  said  Mary,  crying  bitterly,  "  do  not 
speak  thus,  my  dear  father.  I  cannot  bear  the 
thought.  What  will  become  of  me  ?  Alas  ! 
your  poor  Mary  will  no  longer  have  any  one 
upon  earth." — "  Do  not  cry,  my  dear  child,1' 
said  her  father,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her. 


OF    FLOWERS.  73 

**  You  have  a  kind  Father  in  heaven.  He 
will  never  forsake  you,  although  your  earthly 
father  be  taken  away  from  you.  I  do  not  feel 
the  least  anxious  about  the  manner  in  which  you 
will  gain  a  livelihood  ;  no,  it  is  what  distresses 
me  the  least.  The  birds  easily  find  their  food. 
Will  you  not  then  find  enough  to  nourish  you  ? 
God  provides  for  the  smallest  sparrow;  why 
will  he  not  also  provide  for  you  ?  It  is 
quite  another  thing  which  distresses  me," 
continued  he ;  "  it  is  that  you  will  be  left  in  a 
wicked  world.  Alas  !  my  dear  child,  you  do 
not  suspect  the  world  of  being  half  so  wicked 
or  corrupted  as  it  is,  or  of  containing  half  so 
many  wicked  people  as  it  does.  There  will 
be  moments  when  you  will  feel  inclined  to  do 
evil, — moments  when  you  will  allow  yourself, 
perhaps,  to  be  persuaded,  without  much  diffi- 
culty, that  sin  is  not  so  very  wrong.  Listen 
to  the  advice  which  I  now  give  you,  and  let 
the  last  words  of  your  dying  father  be  for  ever 
deeply  impressed  on  your  heart.  Forbid 
every  action,  every  speech,  every  thought  for 
which  you  would  have  to  blush  if  your  father 
knew  it.  Soon  my  eyes  will  be  for  ever 
closed.  I  will  no  longer  be  here  to  watch 
over  you.  But  remember  you  have  in  heaven 
a  father  whose  eye  sees  every  thing,  and  reads 
the  bottom  of  your  heart."  After  a  little 
while,  when  he  hacf  taken  breath,  he  continued. 
"  You  would  not  wish  to  afflict,  by  a  bad  ac- 
G 


74  THE    BASKET 

tion,  the  father  whom  you  have  on  earth ;  how 
much  more  then  should  you  fear  to  offend 
that  Father  who  is  in  heaven  !  Look  at  me 
once  more,  Mary.  Oh,  if  you  ever  feel  the 
least  inclination  to  do  wrong,  think  of  my  pale 
face,  and  of  the  tears  which  wet  my  sunken 
cheeks.  Come  to  me,  put  your  hand  into 
mine,  cold  and  withered,  which  will  soon  fall 
into  the  dust.  Promise  me  never  to  forget 
my  words.  In  the  hour  of  temptation,  im- 
agine you  feel  this  cold  hand  which  you  now 
hold  on  the  border  of  the  grave.  Poor  child, 
you  cannot*see  without  weeping  my  pale  and 
hollow  cheeks.  Ah  !  know  that  every  thing 
passes  away  in  this  world.  There  was  a  time 
when  I  too  had  the  bloom  of  health,  and  the 
fresh  and  vermilion  tint  which  you  now  have. 
The  time  will  come  when  you  too  will  be 
stretched  on  your  bed  of  death,  pale  and  ema- 
ciated as  you  now  see  me,  if  God  does  not 
sooner  take  you  to  himself.  The  friends  of 
my  youth  have  disappeared  like  the  flowers 
which  have  passed  away  with  spring,  and  for 
whose  place  you  seek  in  vain,  like  the  dew 
which  but  for  a  moment  sparkles  on  the 
flowers,  and  is  gone."  The  next  day  James, 
believing  that  his  end  was  near,  though  weak, 
yet  felt  it  his  duty  and  delight  to  continue  his 
dying  advice.  "  I  have  seen  the  world," 
said  he,  "  as  well  as  other  people,  when  I  ac- 
companied the  Count  in  his  travels.  Was 


OF    FLOWERS.  75 

there  any  thing  in  the  large  cities  superb  or 
magnificent,  I  went  there.  I  spent  whole 
weeks  in  pleasure.  Was  there  a  brilliant  as- 
sembly, or  a  lively  conversation,  I  saw  and 
heard  all  as  well  as  my  young  master.  I  al- 
ways had  my  share  in  the  most  exquisite 
meals,  and  of  the  scarcest  wines,  and  always 
had  more  than  I  wished  for.  But  all  these 
noisy  pleasures  left  me  with  an  empty  heart. 
I  here  protest  solemnly,  that  a  few  moments 
of  peaceful  contemplation  and  fervent  prayer 
under  our  arbour  in  Eichbourg,  or  under  this 
thatch  that  covers  us  now,  gave  me  more  real 
joy  than  all — even  on  my  death-bed  I  repeat 
it — more  than  all  the  vain  pleasures  of  this 
world.  Seek,  then,  your  happiness  in  the  love 
and  service  of  our  blessed  Saviour.  You  will 
find  him,  and  he  will  bless  you.  You  know 
very  well,  my  dear  child,  that  I  have  not 
wanted  for  misfortunes  in  this  life.  Alas  ! 
when  I  lost  your  mother,  my  heart  was  for  a 
long  time  like  a  dry  and  barren  garden,  whose 
soil,  burnt  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  cracks  open 
and  seems  to  sigh  for  rain  ;  it  is  thus  that  I 
languished,  thirsting  for  consolation  ;  at  last  I 
found  it  in  the  Lord.  Oh  !  my  child,  there 
will  be  days  in  your  life  when  your  heart  also 
will  be  like  a  dry  and  barren  ground.  But 
do  not  feel  distressed  at  it.  The  thirsty 
ground  calls  not  in  vain  for  rain.  God  sends 
the  rain  necessary  for  it.  Seek  your  consola- 


76  THE    BASKET 

tion  in  the  Lord.  This  consolation  will  re- 
fresh your  heart  as  a  sweet  rain  refreshes  the 
thirsty  earth.  My  dear  child,  let  your  con-  • 
fidence  in  God  be  unshaken.  There  is  no- 
thing he  will  not  do  for  those  he  loves.  He 
conducts  us  by  grief  to  unmingled  happiness. 
Do  you  recollect,  my  good  Mary,  all  the 
grief  which  you  felt  when,  after  our  painful 
walk,  I  fell  down  with  fatigue  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  Well,  this  accident  was  the  means 
which  the  Lord  made  use  of  to  procure  for  us 
the  sweet  rest  which  we  have  enjoyed  for 
three  years  with  these  good  people.  Without 
this  sickness  we  would  either  not  have  come 
before  their  door,  or  they  would  not  have  been 
touched  with  so  much  compassion.  All  the 
pleasures  which  we  have  here  tasted,  all  the 
good  which  we  have  been  enabled  to  do,  all  the 
happy  days  which  we  have  here  spent,  are  so 
many  benefits  which  resulted  from  this  sick- 
ness. It  is  thus,  my  dear  Mary,  that  in  the 
troubles  of  this  life  we  can  find  proofs  of  the 
divine  goodness.  If  the  liberal  hand  of  the 
Lord  has  scattered  with  flowers  mountains  and 
valleys,  forests  and  the  banks  of  rivers,  and 
even  muddy  marshes,  to  give  us  everywhere 
the  opportunity  of  admiring  his  tenderness 
and  goodness,  he  has  also  imprinted  on  all  the 
events  of  our  life  evident  traces  of  his  great 
wisdom,  and  of  his  compassionate  love  for 
men,  in  order  that  an  attentive  mind  may 


OF    FLOWERS.  77 

learn  by  them  to  love  and  adore  Him.  Every 
one  can  observe  them  in  his  own  life,  if  he  is 
capable  of  a  little  attention.  Never  have  we 
had  more  to  suffer  than  when  you  were  ac- 
cused of  a  theft,  when  you  were  chained  and 
likely  to  be  condemned  to  death — when  we 
were  together  weeping  and  lamenting  in  pri- 
son. Well,  this  evil  trial  has  been  a  source 
of  great  good  to  us.  Yes,  it  seems  that 
now  this  benefit  is  visible ;  when  the  young 
countess  distinguished  you  from  the  other 
young  girls,  did  you  the  honour  to  admit  you 
to  her  company,  made  you  a  present  of  a  beau- 
tiful gown,  and  wished  you  to  be  always  near 
her,  no  doubt  you  thought  yourself  very  happy. 
But  it  was  to  be  feared  that  these  honours, 
these  superfluities,  these  advantages  would  ren- 
der you  vain,  trifling,  fond  of  the  things  of  this 
world,  and  apt  to  forget  God.  The  Lord  then 
consulted  our  interest  only,  when  he  changed 
our  situation,  and  made  us  unhappy.  In  mise- 
ry, in  poverty,  in  prison,  we  have  lived  near  to 
him ;  he  has  conducted  us  far  from  the  dissipa- 
tions of  this  corrupt  world  into  this  rude  coun- 
try, where  he  has  prepared  for  you  a  better 
dwelling.  You  are  here  like  a  flower  which 
embellishes  the  most  secret  solitude,  where  it 
has  nothing  to  fear  from  the  hand  of  man.  It  is 
he,  it  is  this  good  and  faithful  God,  who  wishes 
to  give  a  still  more  happy  turn  to  the  misfor- 
tunes which  you  have  suffered.  Yes,  I  firmly 
G  2 


78  THE    BASKET 

believe  that  he  has  answered  my  prayer — yes, 
he  will  one  day  show  the  world  your  inno- 
cence. When  this  time  will  come  I  shall  be- 
no  more ;  but  convinced  as  I  am  of  your  inno- 
cence, I  need  not  to  see  you  justified  in  order 
to  die  tranquilly.  Yes,  Mary,  the  pain  which 
you  have  suffered  will  yet  be  the  means  of 
leading  you  to  joy  and  happiness  on  earth, 
though  this  kind  of  happiness  is  the  least,  and 
to  see  that  God's  great  design  in  afflicting  us 
was  to  prepare  us  for  heaven,  to  which  we  can 
arrive  only  through  suffering  and  tribulation. 
Thus  in  misfortune  let  not  care  trouble  your 
soul ;  believe  that  God's  tenderness  watches 
over  you,  and  that  his  care  will  be  sufficient 
for  you,  in  whatever  place  he  chooses  to  con- 
duct you,  in  whatever  painful  situation  you  may 
be  placed,  say  *  it  is  the  best  place — the  most 
advantageous  situation  for  me,  notwithstand- 
ing all  that  I  suffer.'  Believe  that  it  is  exactly 
the  place  to  perfect  your  virtue,  and  for  you 
to  do  the  will  of  your  Saviour  who  died  for 
you."  So  much  exertion  caused  the  old  man 
to  faint ;  but  after  few  hours  he  continued. 
"  A  gardener  assigns  to  each  plant  the  spot  he 
judges  the  most  suitable,  and  gives  it  that  cul- 
ture which  he  thinks  will  be  the  most  proper 
to  make  it  prosper.  In  the  same  manner  God 
assigns  to  every  believer  that  station  in  life 
which  suits  him  best,  and  in  which  he  will 
make  the  greatest  progress  in  holiness.  And 


OF     FLOWERS.  79 

thus,  my  dear  Mary,  as  he  has  until  now 
turned  to  your  advantage  all  your  misfortunes, 
he  will  also  bless  to  you  my  last  sickness  and 
death.  My  dear  child,  I  cannot  pronounce 
the  word  death,  without  causing  you  to  shed 
a  torrent  of  tears.  Do  not  think  that  death  is 
so  terrible.  Let  us  once  more  speak  as  we 
formerly  did  in  our  garden  at  Eichbourg. 
You  know  what  happens  at  the  beginning  of 
spring ;  small  and  weak  plants  sprout  out  to- 
gether from  narrow  and  moist  beds  :  it  is  not 
then  supposed  that  they  will  become  magnifi- 
cent flowers  or  precious  fruits,  and  indeed 
they  will  bear  neither  fruits  nor  flowers  if 
they  remain  crowded  in  this  narrow  space ; 
they  will  want  room,  and  the  gardener  who 
placed  them  there  does  not  wish  them  to  re- 
main there  and  die.  He  wishes  to  transplant 
them  in  an  open  space,  where  they  may  be  re- 
vived by  the  pure  air,  and  exposed  under  the 
azure  of  a  beautiful  sky,  to  the  golden  rays  of 
the  sun.  At  last,  watered  by  rain  and  dew, 
they  put  forth  leaves  and  shine  in  all  their  beau- 
ty. It  was  always  a  pleasure  to  you  when  I 
transplanted  these  young  shoots,  for  you  used 
to  say  they  crowded  one  another  in  the  beds. 
You  were  only  satisfied  when  they  were  in  an 
open  space — now,  you  would  say,  '  they  will 
grow  finely — it  appears  to  me  that  I  see  it 
already.'  My  dear  daughter,  we  are  poor  weak 


80  THE     BASKET 

plants ;  the  earth  which  we  inhabit  is  a  narrow 
bed ;  this  is  not  our  abode,  here  we  are  but  mise- 
rable vegetables  ;  but  we  are  destined  to  be- 
come something  more  magnificent ;  that  is  the 
reason  why  God  transplants  us  into  large  and 
superb  gardens — in  a  word,  to  heaven.  Cease 
your  weeping,  my  dear  child ;  see  how  much 
better  I  bear  my  prospect  of  departure.  Oh  ! 
how  I  rejoice  to  go  so  soon  to  my  Saviour ; 
what  a  happiness  to  be  delivered  from  this 
body  which  has  done  so  much  evil  in  the 
world,  and  to  be  with  Christ  for  ever !  Dear 
Mary,  do  you  remember  the  great  pleasure 
we  took  in  our  garden  on  a  beautiful  spring 
morning  ?  Heaven  is  compared  to  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  gardens,  where  an  eternal 
spring  for  ever  reigns :  it  is  for  this  delightful 
country  that  I  am  going  to  set  out.  Ah ! 
continue  to  serve  God,  and  we  will  there  be 
at  last  united.  Here  we  have  been  together 
only  to  suffer  tribulations  without  number,  we 
have  been  separated  only  to  weep  and  lament. 
But  there  we  shall  remain  together  in  the 
midst  of  joy  and  beatitude,  without  the  least 
fear  of  separation.  Mary,  live  always  close  to 
God,  and  if  you  are  reserved  for  a  happy  life 
here  below,  let  not  these  passing  joys  make 
you  forget  the  joys  of  eternity :  then  one 
day  your  mother  and  I  will  meet  our  daughter 
in  heaven.  Do  not  then  weep,  my  dear 


OF    FLOWERS.  81 

child,  but  rather  rejoice  in  the  prospect  of  the 
future." 

It  was  thus  that  this  good  father  attempted 
to  console  his  daughter,  who  was  soon  to  be 
left  alone  on  the  earth.  It  was  thus  that  he 
endeavoured,  by  his  advice,  to  preserve  her 
from  the  corruptions  of  the  world.  Every 
word  was  a  good  seed  which  fell  on  well  pre- 
pared ground.  "  I  have  caused  you  much 
grief  and  many  tears,  my  dear  child.  But 
they  are  salutary  tears.  Seeds  sown  among 
tears  take  root  more  easily  and  thrive  much 
better ;  they  are  like  grain  which  when  sown 
is  watered  by  the  soft  showers  of  spring." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Death  of  Mary's  Father. 

WHEN  Mary  found  that  her  father  could 
not  survive  much  longer,  she  went  to  Erlen- 
brunn,  the  parish  to  which  the  Pine  Cottage 
belonged,  and  told  the  minister  of  the  illness 
of  her  father.  This  minister  was  an  exem- 
plary and  pious  man.  He  paid  James  a 
number  of  visits,  and  had  some  of  the  most 
edifying  conversations  with  him,  and  failed 
not  to  console  Mary  with  something  like  fa- 
therly affection.  One  afternoon  he  found  that 


82  THE    BASKET 

the  old  man's  debility  sensibly  increased. 
James  requested  Mary  to  leave  the  room  for 
a  moment,  that  he  might  converse  alone  with 
the  minister.  He  soon  called  her  in  again 
and  said,  "  My  dear  Mary,  I  have  settled  all 
my  worldly  affairs,  and  am  now  ready  to  de- 
part and  be  with  Christ."  Mary  was  dis- 
tressed, and  had  great  difficulty  in  restraining 
her  tears,  for  she  saw  that  the  fatal  moment 
was  not  far  off.  But  she  immediately  reco- 
vered herself,  lest  he  should  be  distressed. 
James  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  and 
evening  in  silent  prayer.  He  was  in  a  state 
of  holy  meditation,  and  spoke  but  very  little. 
The  next  day  he  received  at  the  hands  of  the 
minister  the  bread  and  wine,  symbols  of  the 
body  and  blood  of  Christ.  Faith,  love,  and 
hope  of  eternal  life  had  made  his  venerable 
countenance  radiant  with  celestial  happi- 
ness. Tears  of  fervour  ran  down  his  cheeks. 
Mary,  on  her  knees  beside  his  bed,  trembled, 
wept,  and  prayed.  The  farmer,  his  wife, 
and  all  their  household  contemplated  this 
edifying  scene  with  lively  emotions.  Their 
hands  were  clasped,  and  you  might  see  the 
tears  streaming  from  every  eye.  "  Now," 
said  Mary,  "  I  feel  my  heart  soothed,  and 
am  much  consoled ;  it  is  indeed  true  that 
the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  affords  us,  at  the 
hour  of  death,  celestial  consolation."  In  the 
mean  time  James  felt  his  end  rapidly  ap- 


OFFLOWERS.  83 

preaching.  The  farmer  and  his  wife  honoured 
and  cherished  him  as  their  best  friend,  and 
blessed  the  hour  that  brought  him  to  their 
house.  They  tendered  to  him  every  possible 
service ;  and  came  frequently  every  day  to 
the  door  of  his  little  chamber  to  know  how 
he  was.  And  Mary  was  sure  to  ask  them 
each  time  if  they  did  not  think  he  would  re- 
cover. Once  the  farmer  answered  her,  and 
said,  "  Certainly  he  cannot  survive  the  spring." 
From  that  time  Mary  continually  sat  at  her 
little  window,  and  trembling,  watched  the  bud- 
ding of  her  flowers  in  her  garden.  Until 
now,  the  return  of  spring  had  always  filled 
her  with  joy,  but  now  the  leaves  of  the  goose- 
berry bushes  and  the  budding  of  the  flowers 
filled  her  with  sadness.  The  joyous  chirp- 
ing of  the  chaffinch  overwhelmed  her  with 
terror ;  and  when  she  saw  the  snow-drop  and 
primrose  she  was  deeply  affected.  "Ah!" 
said  she,  "  every  thing  is  renewed — every 
thing  in  nature  smiles,  and  must  my  father 
only  die,  and  must  there  be  for  him  alone  no 
hope  ?"  And  then,  checking  herself,  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  said,  "  No  hope  !  no, 
no  !  Jesus  has  said  he  shall  not  die.  He  is 
only  divested  of  this  earthly  tabernacle,  and 
it  is  only  above  that  he  commences  really  to 
live."  It  gave  the  old  man  pleasure  to  hear 
Mary  read  to  him,  she  did  it  in  so  sweet.aftd 


84  THE    BASKET 

clear  a  voice.  During  the  latter  part  of  his 
illness  he  wished  to  hear  nothing  better  than 
the  last  words  of  Jesus,  and  his  last  prayer. 
Once  during  the  night  his  daughter  was  sit- 
ting beside  his  bed,  the  moon  shed  so  much 
light  into  the  room  that  the  light  of  the  taper 
was  scarcely  visible.  "Mary,"  said  the  in- 
valid, "  read  me  once  more  that  beautiful 
prayer  of  our  Saviour."  She  lighted  a  wax 
light,  and  began  to  read.  "  Now,"  said  he, 
"  give  me  the  book,  and  light  me  a  little." 
Mary  gave  him  the  book  and  carried  the  light 
nearer.  "  Now,"  said  he,  "  this  will  be  the 
last  prayer  that  I  shall  make  for  you."  He 
marked  the  passage  with  his  finger,  and 
prayed  in  a  trembling  voice :  "  O  Father,  I 
have  not  long  to  remain  in  this  world.  I  am 
going,  I  dare  hope  it,  I  am  going  to  thee,  my 
Father.  0  preserve  this  my  child  from  sin, 
for  thy  name's  sake.  While  I  have  been  on 
earth,  I  have  endeavoured  in  thy  name  to  pre- 
serve her  from  it.  But,  O  Lord,  I  am  now 
going  to  thee.  I  do  not  ask  thee  to  take  her 
to  thee,  but  only  to  preserve  her  from  harm. 
Let  thy  holy  truth  support  her — thy  word  is 
truth.  Grant,  O  heavenly  Father,  that  the 
child  which  thou  hast  given  me  may  be  at 
last  admitted  to  the  place  where  I  hope  to  go, 
through  Jesus  my  Saviour.  Amen."  Mary, 
who  stood  beside  his  bed  bathed  in  tears,  re- 
peated as  well  as  her  sobs  would  let  her, 


OF    FLOWERS.  85 

"  Yes,"  continued  he,  "  yes,  my 
dear  daughter,  there  we  will  see  Jesus  in  his 
kingdom  which  he  had  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world,  and  there  we  shall  see  each 
other." 

He  again  lay  down  on  his  pillow  to  rest  a 
little.  He  continued  to  hold  the  book  in  his 
hand.  It  was  the  New  Testament ;  he  had 
bought  it  with  the  first  money  saved  from  the 
purchase  of  his  food,  since  he  had  left  Eich- 
bcurg.  "  Dear  Mary,"  said  he,  some  moments 
afterwards,  "  I  thank  you  again  for  all  the  ten- 
derness which  you  have  shown  me  since  my 
illness  commenced,  and  which  will  be  the  last 
I  shall  feel.  You  have  faithfully  observed  the 
fifth  commandment.  Trust  in  your  heavenly 
Father,  Mary,  and  you  will  receive  of  him 
your  reward,  poor  and  abandoned  as  I  am 
obliged  to  leave  you  in  this  world,  for  I  can 
give  you  nothing  but  my  blessing  and  this 
book.  Be  always  pious  and  good,  and  this 
blessing  will  not  be  without  effect.  The 
blessing  of  a  father,  with  confidence  in  the 
Lord,  is  better  for  a  virtuous  child  than  the 
richest  inheritance.  Take  this  book,  and  let 
it  be  a  remembrance  of  thy  father.  It  cost 
me,  it  is  true,  but  a  few  shillings,  but  let  it 
be  faithfully  read,  the  precepts  therein  con- 
tained put  in  practice,  and  then  I  shall  have 
left  you  the  richest  treasure.  If  I  had  left 
you  as  many  pieces  of  gold  as  the  spring 
H 


86  THE    BASKET 

produces  leaves  and  flowers,  with  all  that 
money  you  could  not  buy  any  thing  better ; 
for  this  book  contains  the  word  of  God.  Read 
in  it  every  morning — no  matter  what  work 
you  have  to  do,  time  should  always  be  found 
for  that — read  at  least  one  passage — preserve 
it  and  meditate  upon  it  in  thy  heart  during  the 
day.  If  you  discover  any  obscurity,  pray  for 
the  Holy  Spirit  to  enlighten  you  as  I  have 
always  practised  ;  what  is  of  most  import- 
ance in  this  book  may  be  understood  by 
everybody,  and  it  is  to  that  you  must  attach 
yourself,  and  it  is  that  you  must  practice,  and 
it  contains  that  which  fails  not  to  draw  down 
upon  you  the  blessing  of  heaven.  This  pas- 
sage alone,  *  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,' 
has  afforded  me  more  lessons  of  wisdom  than 
all  the  books  which  I  read  in  my  youth,  and 
besides  that,  it  has  been  the  source  to  me  of 
a  thousand  pleasures,  and  my  innumerable 
afflictions  would  have  been  characterized  by 
an  unceasing  anxiety,  I  should  have  been  dis- 
couraged and  dejected,  if  this  passage  had  not 
afforded  a  serene  and  submissive  heart." 

About  three  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
James  faintly  said,  "  I  feel  very  ill — open  the 
window  a  little."  Mary  opened  it,  the  moon 
had  disappeared  ;  but  the  sky  covered  with 
stars  presented  a  magnificent  spectacle.  "See 
how  beautiful  the  sky  appears,"  said  the  sick 
man,  "  What  are  the  flowers  of  earth  when 


OF    FLOWERS.  87 

compared  with  these  stars,  whose  beauty 
suffers  no  diminution  ;  it  is  there  I  am 
now  going — what  joy !  Come,  Lord  Jesus 
— come  quickly."  On  saying  these  words, 
he  fell  upon  his  bed,  and  died  the  death  of 
a  Christian.  Mary  thought  he  had  only 
fainted,  for  she  had  never  seen  any  one  die, 
and  did  not  think  he  was  so  near  his  end ; 
nevertheless,  in  her  fright  she  awoke  all  the 
family ;  they  ran  to  the  bed  of  James,  and 
there  she  heard  them  declare  he  was  dead. 
She  threw  herself  upon  the  body  of  her  fa- 
ther, embraced  it,  and  wept — her  lips  fas- 
tened upon  his  wan  and  pale  visage.  The 
tears  of  the  daughter  mingled  with  the  cold 
sweat  of  the  father  that  had  ceased  to  be. 
"  Oh,  my  father — my  good  father,"  said  she, 
"  Jiow  shall  I  acquit  myself  of  all  the  obliga- 
tions I  am  under.  Alas  !  I  cannot — I  can 
only  thank  you  for  all  the  words,  for  all  the 
good  advice  that  I  received  from  that  mouth, 
those  lips,  now  sealed  in  death.  It  is  with 
gratitude  that  I  now  kiss  your  hand,  now  cold 
and  stiff,  that  hand  which  has  bestowed  on 
me  so  many  benefits,  and  which  has  laboured 
so  much  for  my  good.  Oh !  if  my  soul 
could  at  the  same  moment  leave  its  tenement 
of  clay — if  it  could  follow  you,  my  father, 
into  the  heavenly  kingdom.  Oh !  *  let  me 
die  the  death  of  the  righteous.'  It  is  certain 
that  this  life  is  nothing — really  nothing.  What 


88  THE    BASKET 

happiness  must  there  be  in  heaven  and  in 
everlasting  life  !  That  is  now  my  only  con- 
solation." 

This  was  a  heart-rending  scene.  At  lasf 
the  farmer's  wife,  after  persuading  Mary  for 
some  time,  prevailed  upon  her  to  lay  down. 
Nothing  would  induce  Mary  during  the  fol- 
lowing day  to  leave  the  body  of  her  father. 
She  read,  wept,  and  prayed  until  morning. 
Before  the  coffin-lid  was  nailed  down,  Mary 
took  one  more  look  at  her  father.  "  Alas  !" 
said  she,  "  it  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  ever 
behold  your  venerable  face.  How  beautiful 
it  was  when  you  smiled,  and  it  shone  with 
the  glory  into  which  you  were  going  to  enter. 
Farewell — farewell,  my  father,"  cried  she, 
sobbing  aloud.  "  May  your  mortal  remains 
rest  peaceably  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  now 
while  the  angels  of  the  Lord  are,  as  I  hope, 
bearing  your  soul  to  eternal  rest."  She  took 
a  branch  of  rosemary,  of  primrose  as  yellow 
as  gold,  and  violets  of  a  deep  blue.  She  made 
a  bouquet  of  them  and  placed  them  on  the 
bosom  of  her  father,  who  during  his  life  had 
sown  and  cultivated  so  many  flowers.  "  May 
these  flowers,  the  first-fruits  of  the  earth,  be," 
said  she,  "  an  image  of  your  future  resurrection  ; 
and  this  rosemary,  always  green,  the  symbol 
of  the  pious  recollection  that  will  be  for  ever 
engraven  on  my  heart."  When  they  began' 
to  nail  down  the  coffin-lid,  every  stroke  of  the 


OF    FLOWERS.  89 

hammer  caused  her  so  much  emotion  that  she 
almost  fainted.  The  farmer's  wife  led  her 
into  the  next  room,  and  begged  her  to  lie  on 
the  bed  to  recover  herself.  After  the  de- 
parture of  the  funeral,  Mary,  dressed  in  a  suit 
of  mourning,  which  one  of  the  girls  of  the 
village  had  given  her,  followed  close  to  the 
body  of  her  father.  She  was  as  pale  as  death, 
and  everyone  pitied  this  poor  forsaken  orphan, 
who  now  had  neither  father  nor  mother.  As 
Mary's  father  was  a  stranger  at  Erlenbrunn, 
they  dug  a  grave  for  him  in  the  corner  of  the  ce- 
metery beside  the  wall.  Beside  this  wall  were 
two  large  pine  trees  which  shaded  the  tomb. 
The  curate  preached  a  touching  funeral  sermon 
in  respect  for  the  deceased.  He  had  taken  for 
his  text  these  words  of  Jesus  :  "  Except  a  corn 
of  wheat  fall  into  thegroundand  die,  it  abideth 
alone,  but  if  it  die  it  bringeth  forth  much  fruit." 
John  xii.  24.  He  spoke  of  James's  patience, 
and  of  the  resignation  with  which  he  bore  all 
the  misfortunes  which  had  fallen  to  his  lot,  and 
the  good  example  he  had  set  for  those  who 
knew  him.  He  offered  consolations  to  the 
orphan,  who  was  overwhelmed  with  grief. 
He  thanked,  in  the  name  of  the  deceased, 
the  farmer  and  his  wife,  who  had  so  well 
proved  to  Mary  and  her  father  the  kindness 
of  their  hearts.  In  short,  he  begged  them  to 
be  father  and  mother  to  Mary,  who  had  no 
longer  any  parents.  Whenever  Mary  attend- 
H2 


90  THEBASKET 

ed  divine  service  at  Erlenbrunn,  she  never 
failed  to  visit  the  tomb.  She  went  also  every 
Sunday  evening,  when  she  had  opportunity,  to. 
visit  the  tomb  of  her  father,  and  to  weep  over 
his  cherished  remains.  "  Nowhere,"  would 
she  say,  "  have  I  prayed  with  so  much  fervour 
as  here  at  my  father's  grave.  Here  the  whole 
world  is  nothing  to  me.  I  feel  that  we  belong 
to  a  better  world.  My  heart  sighs  for  that  coun- 
try, because  I  daily  feel  the  evil  of  the  one  in 
which  I  now  am."  She  never  left  the  grave 
without  having  made  good  resolutions  to  de- 
spise the  pleasures  of  the  world,  and  to  live 
only  to  her  God. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

Mary  experiences  fresh  Trials. 

FROM  the  time  of  her  father's  death  Mary 
was  always  sad.  The  flowers  had  in  her 
eyes  lost  all  their  beauty  ;  and  the  pines  near 
the  farm  looked  as  though  they  were  clothed 
in  black.  Time,  it  is  true,  moderated  her 
grief,  but  soon  she  had  new  trials  to  undergo. 
Great  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  pine 
farm  since  the  death  of  her  father.  The  farm- 
er had  given  the  farm  to  his  only  son,  a  man. 
of  a  good  temper  and  amiable  disposition,  but 
unhappy  in  the  choice  of  his  wife,  whom  he 


O  F    FLOWERS.  91 

had  married  a  short  time  before.  She  was 
called  handsome,  and  was  possessed  of  con- 
siderable property.  But  she  was  vain  of  her 
beauty,  and  cared  for  nothing  but  gain  :  pride 
and  avarice  had  by  degrees  imprinted  on 
her  features  an  expression  of  harshness  so 
striking,  that  with  all  her  beauty  her  looks 
were  repulsive.  She  violently  opposed  reli- 
gion, and  not  having  the  wholesome  restraints 
of  the  gospel,  if  she  knew  that  any  thing 
would  give  her  father  and  mother  pleasure, 
she  did  just  the  contrary  ;  and  if  she  ever 
gave  the  food  which  was  their  due  according 
to  the  contract,  it  was  always  with  a  bad  grace 
and  sordid  parsimony.  She  sought  continually 
to  mortify  them,  and  made  their  lives  com- 
pletely miserable.  These  good  people  retired 
into  the  little  back  chamber,  and  they  seldom 
appeared  in  the  front  room.  The  young 
husband  was  no  longer  at  his  ease ;  this 
wicked  woman  overwhelmed  him  with  the 
grossest  abuse,  and  cast  into  his  teeth,  a  hun- 
dred times  a  day,  the  money  she  had  brought 
him.  If  he  would  not  spend  the  day  in 
quarrelling  and  disputing,  he  was  obliged  to 
suffer  in  silence.  She  would  never  quietly 
allow  him  to  visit  h;s  parents,  for  fear,  as  she 
said,  he  would  give  them  something  secretly. 
In  the  evening,  after  he  had  finished  his  work, 
he  scarcely  dared  go  near  them.  He  found 


92  THE    BASKET 

them  almost  always  seated  in  sadness  beside 
each  other  on  the  same  bench :  he  would  take 
a  seat  by  them,  and  complain  of  his  hard  lot. 
"  Well,''  said  the  old  father,  "  so  it  is.  You 
suffered  yourself  to  be  dazzled  by  the  bril- 
liancy of  her  gold,  and  by  her  rosy  cheeks ; 
I  yielded  too  easily  to  your  wishes,  and  thus 
we  are  all  punished.  We  should  have  thought 
of  the  good  advice  of  old  James  :  he  was  an 
experienced  man,  and  never  approved  of  this 
match  when  it  was  talked  of  during  his  life. 
I  still  remember  every  word  he  said  on  the 
subject,  and  I  have  thought  of  it  more  than  a 
thousand  times.  Do  you  remember,"  said 
he  to  his  wife,  "  of  having  one  day  said, 
'  But  ten  thousand  florins,  however,  make  a 
handsome  sum  !' — *  A  handsome  sum,'  said 
James — *  no,  for  the  flowers  you  see  in  your 
garden  are  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful. 
Perhaps  you  meant  to  say  it  is  al:*ge  and 
heavy  sum.  I  will  acknowledge  that.  He 
must  have  good  shoulders  who  can  bear  it 
without  being  bowed  down  to  the  earth,  and 
without  becoming  a  poor  wretch,  unable  to 
raise  his  head  to  heaven.  Why  then  wish  for 
so  much  money  ?  You  have  never  wanted 
any  thing;  so  far  from  it,  you  have  always  had 
more  than  sufficient.  Believe  me,  too  much 
money  engenders  arrogance.  Rain  is  a  use- 
ful and  necessary  thing ;  but  when  U  o  much' 


OF    FLOWERS.  93 

falls,  there  is  danger  of  its  destroying  the  most 
healthy  plants  of  the  garden.' 

"  These  are  exactly  the  words  of  the  old 
friend  we  have  lost,  and  I  think  I  still  hear 
him.  And  you,  my  son,  once  said  to  him, 
'  She  has  a  charming  person,  and  is  beautiful 
and  fresh  as  a  rose.'  « Flowers,'  answered 
the  wise  old  man,  *  have  not  beauty  only, 
they  are  good  and  pretty  at  the  same  time. 
They  make  us  many  rich  presents  ;  the  bee  ex- 
tracts from  them  pure  wax  and  delicious  honey. 
Without  piety,  a  beautiful  exterior  is  but  a 
rose  upon  paper,  a  miserable  trifle,  without  life 
and  without  perfume,  which  produces  neither 
wax  nor  honey.'  Such  were  the  reflections 
which  James  frankly  made  before  us.  We 
would  not  listen  to  him — now  we  know  how 
to  appreciate  his  advice.  That  which  ap- 
peared to  us  then  so  great  a  happiness,,  is 
now  to  us  the  height  of  misfortune.  God 
give  us  the  grace  to  bear  our  misfortunes 
with  patience." 

It  was  thus  that  they  used  to  talk  together. 
Poor  Mary  had  also  much  to  suffer.  The 
old  people  were  obliged  to  occupy  the  back 
room.  She  therefore  gave  up  her  place  to 
them.  The  young  farmer's  wife  had  two 
rooms  empty,  but  through  wickedness  she 
gave  Mary  the  most  miserable  apartment  in 
the  house ;  ill-treated  her  in  every  possible 
way,  and  loaded  her  with  abuse.  There  was 


94  THE    BASKET 

nothing  but  fault-finding  from  morning  till 
night.  Mary  did  not  work  enough,  and  did 
not  know  how  to  do  any  thing  as  it  ought  to 
be  done.  It  was  very  plainly  to  be  seen  by  ' 
the  poor  orphan  that  she  was  despised,  and  a 
trouble  to  the  house.  The  old  man  and 
his  wife  were  not  in  a  situation  to  offer  her 
any  consolation  ;  they  had  enough  to  do  with 
their  own  griefs.  She  thought  often  of  going 
away,  but  where  to  go  was  the  question.  She 
asked  the  minister's  advice.  "  My  dear 
Mary,"  said  the  wise  minister,  "  to  remain 
any  longer  at  the  Pine  Farm,  is  a  thing  im- 
possible. Your  father  gave  you  an  excellent 
education,  and  taught  you  all  that  was  ne- 
cessary for  a  village  housekeeper.  But  at  the 
Pine  Farm  they  require  more  than  the  work  of 
a  robust  man-servant.  They  put  upon  you  la- 
bour which  is  beyond  your  strength,  and  which 
does  not  suit  you.  However,  I  do  not  advise 
you  to  leave  there  immediately,  and  to  go  and 
seek  your  fortune  at  once.  The  best  advice 
I  could  give  you  would  be,  to  remain  where 
you  are  for  the  present ;  to  work  as  much  as 
you  can,  and  to  wait  patiently  until  the  Lord 
shall  deliver  you  from  the  state  of  oppression 
under  which  you  sigh.  The  Saviour  who 
raised  you  to  another  condition  is  still  able  to 
sustain  you.  I  will  endeavour  to  get  you  a 
place  in  an  honest  and  Christian  family.- 
^ray,  have  confidence  in  God ;  bear  with  this 


OF    FLOWERS.  95 

trial,  and  God  will  arrange  it  all."  Mary 
thanked  him,  and  promised  to  follow  his  good 
advice.  There  was  no  spot  on  earth  that  she 
loved  better  than  the  tomb  of  her  father.  She 
had  planted  a  rose-tree  there.  "  Alas  !"  said 
she,  while  she  planted  the  shrub,  "  if  I  could 
remain  here  always,  I  would  water  you  with 
my  tears,  and  you  would  soon  be  covered 
with  flowers  and  leaves."  The  rose-tree 
was  already  green,  and  the  buds  began  to 
open  their  purple  cups.  "  My  father  was 
right,"  said  Mary,  "  when  he  compared  the 
human  life  to  a  rose-tree.  Sometimes  it  is 
quite  naked  and  stripped.  It  offers  to  the  eye 
nothing  but  thorns  ;  but  wait  a  little,  and  the 
season  will  again  come  when  it  shall  be 
decked  anew  in  foliage,  and  robed  in  the 
most  beautiful  flowers.  This  is  now  for  me 
the  time  of  thorns,  but  God  forbid  that  I 
should  be  cast  down  by  it.  I  believe  your 
word,  best  of  fathers.  Perhaps  I  may  see 
verified  in  my  life  your  maxim  :  *  Patience 
produces  roses.'  " 


96  THE    BASKET 

CHAPTER   XIII. 

Mary  turned  away  from  the  Pine  Cottage. 

IN  the  midst  of  all  Mary's  troubles,  the  25th 
of  July  arrived,  the  anniversary  of  her  father's 
birth-day.  Until  then,  it  had  always  been  to 
her  a  day  of  joy,  but  this  time  she  hailed 
with  tears  the  rising  of  the  sun,  whose  gilded 
rays  illumined  her  chamber.  Previously  she 
had  always  prepared  for  this  day  something 
which  she  knew  would  give  her  father  plea- 
sure ;  but  now  he  was  gone.  The  country- 
people  in  the  neighbourhood  were  in  the  habit 
of  ornamenting  with  flowers  the  tombs  of  their 
dearest  friends,  particularly  at  the  time  of  such 
anniversaries.  They  had  often  entreated  Mary 
to  give  them  flowers,  and  she  always  took 
pleasure  in  gratifying  their  wishes.  She  now 
thought  of  decorating  her  father's  tomb  in  the 
same  manner.  The  beautiful  basket  which  had 
been  the  first  cause  of  her  unhappiness  was 
before  her  on  the  cupboard.  Mary  took  it  and 
filled  it  with  flowers  of  all  colours,  and  with 
fresh  leaves,  carried  it  to  Erlenbrunn  an  hour 
before  divine  service,  and  deposited  it  on  her 
father's  tomb.  Her  tears,  in  falling  on  the  nose- 
gay, resembled  drops  of  dew.  "  Oh,  the  best 
and  dearest  of  fathers,"  said  she,  "  you  have, 
strewed  with  flowers  the  path  of  life  for  me. 
If  I  cannot  do  as  much  for  you,  I  will  at  least 


OF    FLOWERS.  97 

ornament  your  grave  with  flowers."  Mary 
left  the  basket  on  the  tomb.  She  had  no  fear 
that  any  one  would  dare  to  steal  either  the 
basket  or  the  flowers.  At  a  little  distance  the 
country  people  contemplated  this  offering  with 
joy  mingled  with  pity,  blessed  in  their  hearts 
James's  pious  daughter,  and  prayed  for  her 
prosperity.  The  following  day,  as  the  people 
of  the  farm  were  taking  in  the  hay  from  a 
large  meadow  situated  beyond  the  forest,  a 
piece  of  fine  linen,  which  was  spread  out  on 
the  grass  near  a  rivulet,  a  few  steps  from  the 
house,  suddenly  disappeared.  The  young 
farmer's  wife  did  not  miss  it  until  the  evening. 
Suspicious,  as  all  misers  are,  her  suspicions 
immediately  fell  on  Mary.  The  good  father 
James,  far  from  concealing  the  history  of  the 
ring,  had  related  it  to  the  old  farmer  and  his 
wife.  Their  son,  who  had  heard  it,  impru- 
dently related  it  to  his  wife.  In  the  evening, 
when  Mary,  a  rake  on  her  shoulder  and  an 
earthen  pitcher  in  her  hand,  came  into  the 
house  with  the  servants,  this  wicked  woman 
came  out  of  the  kitchen  and  met  her  with  a 
torrent  of  abuse,  and  ordered  her  to  return  the 
linen  immediately.  The  poor  girl  answered 
with  mildness,  that  it  was  impossible  she 
could  have  taken  the  linen,  as  she  had  passed 
the  whole  day  in  the  hay-field  with  the  people 
of  the  house ;  that  a  stranger  might  easily 
have  taken  advantage  of  a  moment  when  there 


98  THE    BASKET 

was  no  one  in  the  kitchen,  to  commit  this 
theft.  This  conjecture  was  indeed  the  truth. 
But  the  farmer's  wife  began  to  scold  in  a 
frightful  tone.  ««  Thief!"  cried  she,  "  do  you 
think  I  am  ignorant  of  the  theft  of  the  ring, 
and  what  difficulty  you  had  to  escape  the 
sword  of  the  executioner  ?  Begone  as  soon 
as  possible.  There  is  no  room  in  my  house 
for  creatures  like  you." — "  It  is  too  late," 
said  the  husband,  "  to  send  her  away  now. 
The  sun  is  setting.  Let  her  sup  with  us,  as 
she  has  worked  hard  all  day  in  an  excessive 
heat — consent  to  keep  her  only  this  one 
night." — "  Not  even  an  hour,"  said  this 
wicked  woman.  The  husband  soon  saw  that 
advice  would  only  serve  to  irritate  her  still 
more  ;  he  was,  therefore,  silent.  Mary  made 
no  answer  to  the  injuries  of  the  farmer's 
wife.  She  wrapped  up  the  little  she  had  in  a 
clean  napkin  quite  large  enough  to  contain  all, 
put  the  little  bundle  under  her  arm,  thanked 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Pine  Farm  for  the  ser- 
vices they  had  done  her,  protested  once  more 
her  innocence,  and  asked  permission  to  take 
leave  of  her  benefactors.  «*  You  may  do  that," 
said  the  farmer's  wife,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
"  and  if  you  wish  to  take  with  you  these  two 
old  gray-headed  people,  it  will  give  me  great 
pleasure.  Otherwise,  it  is  evident,  death  de- 
signs not  to  rid  me  of  them  for  some  time." 
The  good  old  people  had  heard  this  noise, 


O  F     F  L  O  W  E  R  S.  99 

and  both  wept.  However,  they  consoled 
Mary  as  well  as  they  could,  and  gave  her 
some  money  to  assist  her  on  her  journey. 
"  Go,  good  girl,"  said  they  to  her,  "  and  may 
God  conduct  you."  Mary  set  out  towards  the 
close  of  the  day  with  her  little  bundle  under 
her  arm,  and  began  to  climb  up  the  mountain, 
following  a  narrow  road  in  the  woods.  She 
wished  to  visit  once  more  her  father's  tomb. 
When  she  came  out  of  the  forest,  the  village 
clock  struck  seven,  and  before  she  arrived  at 
the  grave-yard  it  was  nearly  dark.  But  she 
was  not  afraid  to  pass  the  night  in  the  midst 
of  the  graves.  She  went  to  her  father's  tomb, 
and  her  tears  fell  in  torrents.  The  full  moon 
shone  through  the  dark  foliage  of  the  two 
pines,  and  illumined  with  a  silver  light  the 
roses  on  the  grave  and  the  basket  of  flowers. 
An  evening  breeze  blew  with  a  soft  murmur 
among  the  branches  of  the  pine-trees,  and 
agitated  in  turn  the  trembling  leaves  of  the 
rose-tree  planted  on  the  tomb.  "  My  dear 
father,"  said  Mary,  "  why  are  you  not  still 
here  to  hear  my  complaints  ?  It  is  better,  and 
it  is  a  blessing  for  which  I  thank  the  Lord,  that 
you  did  not  live  to  witness  this  affliction.  You 
are  now  happy  and  inaccessible  to  grief.  Oh  ! 
why  am  I  not  with  you  ?  Alas  !  never  was  I 
so  much  to  be  pitied  as  now.  When  the 
moon  illumined  my  prison  through  the  iron 
bars,  you  were  then  alive.  Oh,  my  dear  fa- 


100  THE     BASKET 

ther,  now  it  illumines  your  grave.  When  I 
was  driven  from  my  country  that  I  loved 
so  much,  at  least  you  were  left  me,  and  I, 
had  in  you  a  good  father,  a  protector,  and 
faithful  friend.  Now  I  have  no  one.  Poor, 
forsaken,  suspected  of  crime,  a  stranger,  I  am 
alone  in  the  world,  and  know  not  where  to 
lay  my  head.  A  little  corner  remained  to 
me  on  this  earth, — one  little  corner,  and  be- 
hold I  am  driven  from  it.  My  last  consola- 
tion was  to  come  from  time  to  time  and 
weep  on  your  grave ;  of  this  also  I  am  de- 
prived." At  these  words  she  began  again 
to  weep.  "  Alas !"  said  she,  "I  dare  not 
at  this  hour  beg  an  asylum  for  the  night.  If 
I  relate  why  I  was  turned  out  of  doors,  no 
one,  perhaps,  will  consent  to  receive  me." 
She  looked  around  her.  Against  the  grave- 
yard wall,  and  near  her  father's  tomb,  was  a 
grave-stone,  very  old  and  quite  covered  with 
moss.  As  the  inscription  had  been  effaced,  it 
was  left  there  to  answer  as  a  bench.  "  I  am 
going  to  sit  down  on  this  stone,"  said  she, 
"  and  pass  the  night  near  the  tomb  of  my  fa- 
ther. It  is,  perhaps,  the  last  time  I  shall  ever 
be  here.  Perhaps  I  shall  never  again  see 
this  tomb  which  is  so  dear  to  me.  To-morrow, 
before  daybreak,  if  it  be  the  will  of  God,  I 
shall  continue  my  route,  and  I  will  go  whither 
his  hand  may  direct  me." 


OP    FLOWERS.  101 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Divine  Providence  sends  Relief  to  Mary. 

MARY  sat  down  on  a  stone  near  the  wall, 
and  under  the  thick  foliage  of  a  pine,  which 
covered  her  with  its  dark  branches.  She 
hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  all  bathed  in 
tears.  Her  soul  was  troubled,  and  she 
breathed  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart  prayers 
so  fervent  that  language  would  fail  to  express 
them.  Scarcely  had  she  finished  when 
she  heard  a  sweet  voice  calling  her  familiarly 
by  her  name,  "  Mary,  Mary."  She  looked 
and  trembled.  Then  she  saw  a  being  with  a 
beautiful  face  and  elegant  figure.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  long  robe  as  white  as  snow,  on 
which  the  moon  shone  with  brightness.  Mary 
could  see  her  distinctly,  and  frightened  and 
trembling,  she  was  about  to  fly.  "  Dear 
Mary,"  said  this  being,  in  the  most  affable 
manner,  "  be  not  alarmed.  I  am  but  a  mor- 
tal like  yourself.  But  I  come  to  your  assist- 
ance. God  has  heard  your  fervent  prayers. 
Look  at  me  ;  is  it  possible  you  do  not  know 
me  ?"  With  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  Mary 
cried,  «'  Is  it  you,  the  Countess  Amelia  ? 
Oh,  how  did  you  get  here  ?  here  in  so  fright- 
ful a  place  at  this  hour  of  night,  so  far 
from  your  home  ?"  The  Countess  raised 
Mary  gently  from  the  ground,  pressed  her  to 
12 


102  THE    BASKET 

her  heart,  and  kissed  her  tenderly.  "  Dear 
Mary,"  said  she,  "  we  have  been  doing  you 
great  injustice.  You  have  been  ill  rewarded 
for  the  pleasure  you  gave  me  by  the  gift  of 
the  basket  of  flowers.  But  at  last  your  inno- 
cence is  recognised.  Ah !  can  you  forgive 
us  ?  Can  you  forgive  my  parents  and  me  ? 
Come,  we  are  ready  to  repair  every  thing 
so  far  as  it  lies  in  our  power.  Forgive  us, 
dear  Mary." — '*  Do  not  speak  thus,"  said 
Mary.  "  Considering  the  circumstances,  you 
used  a  great  deal  of  indulgence  towards  me. 
No,  it  never  entered  my  mind  to  nourish  the 
least  resentment  towards  you.  I  only  thought 
of  your  kindness  with  gratitude.  My  only 
sorrow  was,  that  you  and  your  dear  parents 
should  regard  me  as  an  ungrateful  and  hard- 
hearted wretch.  My  most  ardent  desire  was, 
that  you  might  one  day  be  convinced  of  my 
innocence,  and  this  desire  God  has  granted. 
May  his  name  be  praised."  The  Countess 
pressed  Mary  to  her  heart,  and  bathed  her 
face  in  tears.  Afterwards  she  looked  at  the 
tomb,  and  clasping  her  hands,  exclaimed  in 
accents  of  grief,  "  Oh  thou  noble  man,  thou 
honest  gardener,  whose  remains  here  repose  in 
the  bosom  of  the  earth,  thou  whom  I  learned 
to  love  from  my  most  tender  infancy,  whose 
affectionate  counsels  I  have  so  often  received, 
and  to  whose  fervent  prayers  I  have  so  often- 
listened, — why  cannot  I  see  thy  face  to  ask 


OF    FLOWERS.  103 

thy  pardon  for  all  the  injustice  we  have  done 
thee  !  Ah  !  if  we  had  taken  more  precaution, 
if  we  had  placed  more  confidence  in  an  old 
servant  who  had  always  shown  an  unimpeach- 
able probity  and  fidelity,  thy  remains  would 
not  be  here  to  be  eaten  of  worms;  thou  hadst 
still  been  living  with  us." — "  Alas,  good 
Countess,"  said  Mary,  "  my  father  was  very 
far  from  feeling  the  least  resentment  towards 
you.  He  prayed  for  you  every  evening  and 
morning,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do  while 
we  lived  in  Eichbourg.  He  blessed  you  all 
at  the  hour  of  his  death.  *  Mary,'  said  he, 
a  little  while  before  he  died,  '  I  feel  perfectly 
confident  that  those  whom  we  served  will  one 
day  recognise  your  innocence,  and  will  recall 
you  from  exile.  Assure  then  the  Count,  the 
Countess,  and  Amelia,  whom  I  have  more 
than  once  carried  in  my  arms,  that  my  heart 
was  full  of  respect,  of  love  and  gratitude  to- 
wards them  till  my  last  breath.  Be  assured, 
Countess,  that  those  were  his  last  words." 
The  tears  of  the  good  Amelia  flowed  still 
abundantly.  "  Come,  Mary,"  said  she,  "  come 
and  sit  down  here  with  me  on  this  stone.  I 
cannot  leave  this  tomb.  We  are  safe  here,  in 
the  sanctuary  of  the  Lord,  and  let  me  tell  you 
how  all  these  strange  events  have  happened." 


104  THE    BASKET 

CHAPTER  XV. 

How  Amelia  came  to  visit  the  Grave-yard. 

"  GOD  is  surely  with  you,  dear  Mary,"  said 
the  young  Countess,  after  having  made  Mary 
sit  down  beside  her.  "  He  has  taken  you  under 
his  protection.  It  is  he  who  has  marvellously 
conducted  me  here  to  assist  you.  There  is 
nothing  but  what  is  simple  and  natural  in  the 
recital  which  I  shall  give  you.  You  will, 
however,  see  in  it  a  chain  of  truly  providen- 
tial circumstances.  From  the  time  that  your 
innocence  was  made  known  to  the  world,  I 
had  no  more  rest.  You  and  your  father  were 
always  present  to  my  mind.  Believe  me, 
dear  Mary,  I  have  shed  many  tears  on  your 
account.  My  parents  sought  for  you  every- 
where, without  being  able  to  obtain  any  know- 
ledge of  you.  Two  days  ago  I  came  with 
my  father  and  mother  to  the  hunting  castle 
of  the  prince,  in  the  forest  not  far  from  this 
village.  For  twenty  years,  at  least,  this  castle 
has  not  been  visited,  and  it  is  inhabited  only 
by  the  gamekeeper.  My  father  had  some 
particular  business.  He  had  spent  the  whole 
day  in  the  forest,  in  company  with  two 
strange  lords,  whom  the  same  business  had 
brought  here.  These  gentlemen  came  ac- 
companied by  their  wives,  and  a  young  lady, 
the  daughter  of  one  of  them.  It  had  been 


OF    FLOWERS.  105 

extremely  warm  during  the  day,  and  the  even- 
ing was  so  fine,  so  fresh,  so  delicious,  the  set- 
ting sun  offered  so  beautiful  a  spectacle,  the 
mountains  covered  with  forests  of  pines,  and 
interspersed  with  picturesque  rocks,  were  so 
novel  a  spectacle,  and  afforded  a  pleasure  so 
lively,  that  I  begged  permission  to  view  once 
more  the  country.  The  gamekeeper's  daugh- 
ter accompanied  me  ;  as  we  passed  along  we 
found  a  door  of  the  grave-yard  open,  and  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  gilded  the  tombstones. 

I  had  always  since  my  childhood  taken  plea- 
sure in  reading  inscriptions  and  epitaphs :  I 
am  moved  when  one  tells  of  a  young  man  or 
woman  carried  off  in  the  bloom  of  youth  ;  I 
feel  an  indescribable,  melancholy  pleasure,  if 
it  concerns  a  person  who  had  reached  an  ad- 
vanced age.     The  verses  themselves,  although 
the  sentiments  which  dictate  them  are  often 
better  than  the  language   in  which  they  are 
clothed,  excite  in  me  a  crowd  of  serious  feel- 
ings, and  I  never  fail  to  draw  from  these  epi- 
taphs good  thoughts    and  useful  resolutions, 
which  I  carry  away  with  me.     We  came  in. 
After  I  had  read  a  great  number  of  the  inscrip- 
tions, the  gamekeeper's  daughter  said  to  me, 

I 1  want  to  show  you  something  very  beauti- 
ful.    It  is  the  grave  of  an  old  man.    You  will 
there  find  neither  tomb  nor  epitaph,  but  it  has 
been  ornamented  with  taste  and  elegance  by 
the  tender  piety  of  a  daughter.     See  through 


106  THE    BASKET 

the  thick  foliage  of  these  pines,  a  beautiful 
rose-tree,  and  basket  of  flowers  on  the  tomb.' 
I  came  to  it,  and  stood  petrified  at  the  first, 
glance,  as  I  recognised  the  basket  which  had 
presented  itself  to  my  mind  a  thousand  times 
since  you  left  Eichbourg.  I  drew  near  to 
look  at  it,  and  if  I  had  had  any  doubts,  the 
initials  of  my  name,  and  the  arms  of  my 
family  would  have  removed  them.  I  asked 
for  your  history,  and  that  of  your  father.  The 
gamekeeper's  daughter  related  to  me  your  re- 
sidence at  the  Pine  Farm,  the  last  sickness  and 
death  of  your  father,  and  the  grief  which  it 
had  caused  you.  I  went  to  the  minister, 
whom  I  found  a  very  respectable  divine.  He 
confirmed  all  that  I  had  before  heard,  and 
praised  you  very,  very  much.  I  wished  to  go 
immediately  to  the  Pine  Farm,  but  during  the 
recital  time  had  flown  so  rapidly,  that  it  was 
already  quite  dark.  What  shall  I  do  ?  said  I ; 
it  is  now  too  late  to  go  to  the  farm,  but  by  to- 
morrow, at  daybreak,  we  will  set  out.  The 
minister  sent  for  the  schoolmaster,  to  charge 
him  to  go  and  bring  you  without  delay  to  the 
manor.  *  Poor  stranger,'  said  the  school- 
master, *  you  need  not  go  very  far  to  look  for 
her :  she  went  a  short  time  ago  to  her  father's 
tomb,  and  there  she  is  weeping  and  lament- 
ing. Alas  !  poor  child,'  said  he,  '  may  grief 
not  produce  in  her  a  disease  of  the  mind.  I 
saw  her  from  an  opening  in  the  steeple  when 


OF    FLOWERS.  107 

I  went  to  wind  up  the  clock.'  The  minister 
wished  to  accompany  me  to  the  tomb  of  your 
father ;  but  I  begged  him  to  allow  me  to  go 
to  you  alone,  so  that  I  might  embrace  you 
with  all  my  heart  without  any  witnesses  :  and 
yielding  to  my  importunities,  he  went  to 
tell  my  parents  where  I  was,  and  to  prepare 
them  for  your  arrival.  This  accounts,  my 
dear  Mary,  for  my  sudden  appearance.  Thus, 
through  the  ordering  of  divine  Providence, 
this  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  has  re-united  us  at 
the  tomb  of  your  father,  who  is  now  inhabiting 
the  dwelling  of  the  blessed." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
raising  her  grateful  eyes  to  heaven,  "God 
has  done  it  all.  He  has  had  pity  on  my 
tears,  and  on  the  extremity  in  which  I  was. 
O  what  goodness,  what  boundless  tender- 
ness !" 

"  I  have  still  one  thing  to  tell  you  yet,  my 
dear  Mary,"  answered  the  Countess,  inter- 
rupting her  ;  "  one  peculiarity  of  this  his- 
tory appears  to  me  singularly  touching,  and 
inspires  me  with  an  awe  for  the  justice  of 
God,  who  often  directs  our  lot  unknown  to 
ourselves.  Juliette,  the  greatest  enemy  you 
have  upon  earth,  had  but  one  thought — one 
desire  :  it  was  to  banish  you  from  my  heart, 
and  to  confirm  herself  in  your  place.  It  was 
with  that  view  that  she  imagined  her  dread- 
ful falsehood,  and  her  atrocious  stratagem 


108  THE    BASKET 

appeared  to  her  to  have  succeeded  but  too 
well.  But  afterwards  it  was  exactly  this 
falsehood  that  caused  her  to  lose  her  place 
and  our  confidence,  and  that  rendered  you 
more  dear  than  ever  to  our  hearts.  She  en- 
deavoured to  estrange  you  for  ever  from  my 
heart.  Your  banishment  was  continually  to 
her  a  subject  of  triumph.  In  the  transport 
of  her  malignant  joy,  she  went  in  the  excess 
of  wickedness,  and  threw  at  your  feet  this 
basket  with  an  insulting  laugh,  and  it  was  ex- 
actly this  event,  which  was  afterwards,  al- 
though she  little  thought  it  then,  to  re-unite 
us  for  ever.  Was  it  not,  indeed,  this  basket 
which  discovered  to  me  your  secret  dwell- 
ing? It  is  true  that  with  the  love  of  God  we 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  any  enemy.  God 
knows  how  to  turn  to  our  advantage  all  the 
ill  that  wicked  people  can  do  us  ;  and  thus  our 
most  cruel  enemies,  in  all  that  they  attempt 
against  us,  can  do  nothing  in  reality  but 
contribute  to  our  happiness.  It  is  very  well 
in  this  case  to  say  that  our  safety  comes 
from  our  enemies.  But  it  is  time,"  con- 
tinued the  Countess,  "  to  relate  to  me  also 
what  brought  you  so  late  to  your  father's 
tomb,  and  why  just  now  you  were  crying  so 
bitterly." 

Mary  related  how  they  had  driven  her  from 
the  Pine  Cottage,  a  new  subject  of  astonish- 
ment to  the  Countess. — "  Yes,  indeed,"  said 


OF    FLOWERS.  109 

Amelia,  "  it  is  by  God's  will  that  I  have  ar- 
rived just  at  the  time  when  you  were  plunged 
in  the  deepest  distress,  when  you  were  im- 
ploring his  assistance  in  an  accent  so  sorrow- 
ful, and  when  scalding  tears  were  running 
down  your  cheeks.  You  again  see  in  this  a 
surprising  proof  of  this  truth,  that  God  knows 
how  to  turn  to  our  advantage  the  ill  which 
our  enemies  design  to  do  us.  The  farmer's 
wicked  wife,  who  drove  you  from  her  house, 
thought  she  would  make  you  unhappy,  and 
without  knowing  it,  she  has  conducted  you 
to  my  arms,  and  those  of  my  parents,  who 
as  well  as  myself  are  desirous  of  making 
you  happy.  But  it  is  time  to  set  out,"  said 
Amelia ;  «« my  parents  are  waiting  for  me. 
Come,  dear  Mary,  I  will  never  leave  you  any 
more,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  set  out  with 
us." 

Mary,  who  thought  with  grief  that  perhaps 
she  never  should  return  to  this  place,  bid 
adieu  to  the  cherished  tomb,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  she  could  leave  it.  At  length 
the  Countess  took  her  by  the  hand,  saying, 
"  Come,  come,  dear  Mary,  and  take  with 
you  this  basket  of  flowers,  in  order  that  we 
may  always  have  in  remembrance  the  present 
of  your  venerable  father.  Instead  of  the 
basket  with  which  your  filial  piety  ornamented 
his  tomb,  we  will  erect  a  monument  more 
lasting,  and  it  will  be  to  you,  I  am  sure,  a 


110  THE    BASKET 

subject  of  joy.  Come,  you  must  be  impatient 
to  hear  the  history  of  the  ring,  and  I  will  re- 
late it  to  you  on  the  road."  She  took  her  arm, 
and  walked  by  the  soft  light  of  the  moon  to- 
wards the  castle. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

The  Story  of  the  finding  of  the  Ring. 

A  LONG  and  dark  walk  of  high  and  old 
linden  trees  led  to  the  castle.  After  Amelia 
and  Mary  had  walked  for  some  time  in  silent 
revery,  "I  must,"  said  the  young  Countess, 
"  relate  to  you  how  the  ring  was  found. 
We  left  the  court  this  year  earlier  than 
usual,  in  the  beginning  of  March.  The 
affairs  of  my  father  required  his  presence  at 
Eichbourg.  Scarcely  had  we  arrived  when  the 
weather  changed.  One  night,  in  particular, 
we  had  a  tremendous  storm.  You  know  the 
enormous  pear-tree  we  had  in  our  garden  at 
Eichbourg.  It  was  already  very  old,  and  bore 
scarcely  any  fruit.  The  wind,  which  that 
night  blew  with  great  violence,  had  bent  it  so 
much  that  it  threatened  every  moment  to  fall. 
My  father  ordered  it  to  be  cut  down.  All  the 
servants  were  obliged  to  assist,  and  to  take 
great  care  in  order  that  it  should  not  injure 
the  other  trees  in  its  fall.  My  father,  my  rno- 


OF    FLOWERS.  Ill 

ihcr,  the  children,  and  indeed  all  the  people 
in  the  castle  had  come  into  the  garden.  They 
all  wanted  to  see.  As  soon  as  the  tree  fell 
down,  my  two  little  brothers  ran  immediately 
towards  a  nest  of  magpies,  which  was  in  the 
tree,  and  which  had  been  for  a  long  time  an 
object  of  dispute  between  these  children. 
They  examined  their  prey  with  great  atten- 
tion. 4  Look  !  brother,'  said  Augustus, 
*  what  is  that  shining  among  the  branches  ? 
What  brightness  !' — *  It  is  something,'  said 
Albert,  *  as  sparkling  as  gold  and  precious 
stones.'  Juliette  made  haste  to  look  at  it,  and 
uttered  a  scream.  '  Oh,'  said  she,  '  it  is  the 
ring  /'  and  became  as  pale  as  death.  The 
children  undid  the  ring  from  among  the 
branches,  and  carried  it  immediately,  in  great 
glee,  to  my  mother.  «  Yes,  it  is,'  said  my 
mother.  «  Oh  !  good  and  honest  James, — Oh  ! 
poor  Mary,  what  injustice  we  have  done  you. 
I  am  very  glad  to  find  this  ring  again,  but  I 
should  be  much  more  so  if  I  could  find  James 
and  Mary.  I  would  willingly  make  the  sacrifice 
of  the  ring  to  repair  the  wrong  which  I  have 
done  them.' — '  But,'  said  I,  '  by  what  singular 
chance  was  this  ring  carried  into  the  nest  at 
the  top  of  the  tree  ?' — '  That  is  what  I  am 
going  to  explain  to  you,'  said  the  old  hunts- 
man, Anthony,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  such 
was  his  joy  in  seeing  your  innocence  acknow- 
ledged !  *  Neither  the  old  gardener  James 


112  THE    BASKET 

nor  his  daughter  Mary  could  have  hidden  the 
ring  in  this  place.  That  is  very  clear.  The 
tree  was  too  high,  and  it  would  have  been 
almost  impossible  to  climb  up  as  high  as  that. 
Besides,  they  did  not  give  them  time.  Mary 
had  scarcely  returned  to  the  house  when  she 
and  her  father  were  both  arrested.  But  mag- 
pies, these  black  birds  that  have  their  nest 
upon  this  tree,  have  a  great  taste  for  any  thing 
that  shines  ;  and  if  they  can  find  any  thing 
that  has  that  quality,  they  carry  it  off  imme- 
diately to  their  nest.  One  of  these  birds  stole 
the  ring  and  carried  it  to  the  tree.  That  is  all 
the  mystery.  The  only  thing  that  astonishes 
me  is,  that  an  old  huntsman  like  I  am  should 
not  have  thought  sooner  that  these  birds 
might  have  stolen  the  lost  ring.' — *  Anthony,' 
said  my  mother,  *  you  are  perfectly  right,  and 
the  whole  secret  bursts  upon  me  at  once.  I 
recollect  very  distinctly  that  very  often  these 
birds  came  from  the  top  of  this  tree  to  the 
window,  that  the  sash  was  up  when  the  ring 
disappeared,  that  the  table  upon  which  I  had 
put  the  ring  was  close  to  the  window,  and 
that  after  having  shut  the  door  and  bolted  it, 
I  went  into  the  next  room,  where  I  stayed  for 
some  time.  No  doubt  one  of  these  mischievous 
birds  distinguished  the  ring  from  the  top  of 
this  tree,  and  took  advantage  of  the  moment  in 
which  I  was  amusing  myself  in  the  other  room 
to  come  and  carry  it  off  in  his  beak  without 


OF    FLOWERS.  113 

being  perceived.'  My  father  was  troubled 
and  confounded  at  having  a  conviction  so  un- 
foreseen, still  so  complete,  that  you  and  your 
father  had  been  the  victims  of  an  unjust  con- 
demnation. *  My  heart  is  almost  broken,' 
said  he,  '  for  having  done  these  good  people 
so  much  injury.  My  only  consolation  is,  that 
it  was  not  done  through  ill-will,  but  in  igno- 
rance and  error.'  Thereupon  he  went  to 
Juliette,  who,  amidst  all  the  gayety  pictured  on 
every  countenance,  remained  pale  and  trem- 
bling, like  a  guilty  creature.  «  False  wretch  !' 
said  he,  *  deceitful  serpent !  what  could  have 
given  you  the  boldness  to  lie  to  your  masters 
and  to  justice,  and  to  induce  them  to  do  an 
action  the  iniquity  of  which  now  cries  for 
vengeance  ?  How  could  you  take  upon  your- 
self to  precipitate  into  an  abyss  of  suffering 
an  old  and  honest  man,  and  his  poor  and  in- 
nocent daughter  ?  Come,  seize  her  in  an  in- 
stant,' said  he  to  two  officers  of  justice,  who 
had  assisted  in  cutting  down  the  tree,  and  who 
had  already  approached  Juliette,  and  had  their 
eyes  fixed  on  my  father,  whose  orders  they 
were  waiting.  «  Let  her  be  loaded  with 
chains,'  said  he,  in  a  grave  tone,  *  the  same 
chains  that  Mary  wore,  and  let  her  be  thrown 
into  the  same  prison  in  which  she  caused 
Mary  to  languish.  She  ought  to  suffer  all 
that  Mary  suffered  without  having  deserved  it. 
What  she  has  been  able  to  pick  up,  of  money 

K2 


114  THE    BASKET 

or  clothes,  shall  be  taken  from  her  to  serve  as 
a  compensation,  if  it  is  still  possible,  to  those 
unhappy  people  who  have  had  to  groan  under 
an  unjust  process.  In  fine,  the  officer  who 
conducted  Mary  out  of  my  dominions  shall 
also  conduct  Juliette,  just  as  she  is,  as  far  as 
the  limit.'  These  words  made  every  one 
present  tremble.  They  were  all  pale  and 
silent.  No  one  had  ever  seen  my  father  so 
exasperated  ;  never  had  they  heard  him  speak 
with  so  much  warmth.  A  profound  silence 
reigned  for  some  time.  At  last  every  one  read- 
ily spoke  his  sentiments  and  thoughts.  *  It  is 
well  done,'  said  the  officer,  taking  Juliette  by 
the  arm.  '  When  one  digs  another's  grave 
one  must  fill  it  one's-self.' — « That  is  what  is 
gained  by  telling  falsehoods,'  said  the  other 
officer,  taking  her  other  arm.  '  It  is  true  that 
•no  thread  is  so  fine  that  it  cannot  be  seen  in 
the  sunshine.' — '  It  was  a  pretty  dress  given 
to  Mary,'  said  the  cook  in  her  turn,  '  that 
made  Juliette  angry.  In  her  passion,  not  know- 
ing well  what  she  was  about,  she  began  to 
tell  falsehoods,  and  then  it  was  impossible  to 
retract  without  acknowledging  herself  an  infa- 
mous liar.  Thus  the  proverb  is  not  wrong 
which  says,  "  When  once  the  devil  has  us  by 
the  hair,  he  will  hold  fast  to  us  always."  ' — *  It 
is  well,  it  is  well,'  said  the  coachman,  who 
had  just  finished  cutting  the  tree,  and  who  still 
had  the  axe  over  his  shoulder.  '  Let  us  hope 


OF    FLOWERS.  115 

that  at  least  this  time  she  will  mend  her  ways, 
if  she  does  not  wish  to  be  worse  off  in  the  next 
world.  The  tree  that  bears  not  good  fruit,' 
said  he,  shaking  his  axe,  '  shall  be  cut  down, 
and  cast  into  the  fire.'  The  news  of  the  ring 
was  spread  through  all  Eichbourg  in  an  in- 
stant, and  every  one  ran  to  the  place,  so  that 
in  a  little  while  there  was  a  great  crowd  round 
us.  Our  bailiff  came  also  into  the  garden. 
Every  witness  of  the  discovery  was  as  eager 
as  possible  to  tell  him  all  about  it. 

"  You  cannot  imagine,  my  dear  Mary,  the 
effect  that  this  story  produced  on  the  good 
bailiff.  Notwithstanding  his  severity  respect- 
ing you,  he  is  most  assuredly  a  man  of  great 
probity,  and  one  who  has  attached  himself 
all  his  life  to  laws  and  justice  with  inviolable 
fidelity.  *  I  would  give  half  my  goods,'  said 
he,  in  a  tone  that  went  to  the  heart  of  every 
one,  *  yes,  I  would  willingly  have  given  every 
thing  that  I  possess,  if  this  misfortune  had  not 
happened.  To  condemn  innocence  has  some- 
thing frightful  in  it.'  Then  looking  round 
him  at  the  assembled  multitude,  he  said,  in 
a  loud  and  solemn  voice,  '  God  is  the  only 
infallible  judge,  the  only  one  who  cannot  be 
deceived.  He  knows  every  thing  :  he  alone 
knew  how  the  ring  had  disappeared ;  he  alone 
knew  the  place  in  which  it  had  remained  hid- 
den until  now.  The  judges  of  the  earth  are 
near-sighted,  and  very  likely  to  deceive  them- 


116  THE   BASKET 

selves.  It  is  rare  here  below  that  innocence 
suffers  and  vice  triumphs.  The  invisible 
Judge,  who  will  recompense  one  day  all  good 
actions,  and  punish  all  bad  ones,  the  Most  • 
High,  has  resolved  that  even  here  below  inno- 
cence shall  not  long  suffer  from  suspicion, 
nor  hidden  crime  remain  long  concealed.  And 
see,  admire,  by  what  a  marvellous  chain  of 
events  circumstances  have  obeyed  his  holy 
will  to  concur  to  this  end.  It  was  necessary 
that  this  dreadful  storm  which  shook  the  whole 
castle  and  made  us  all  tremble  last  night, 
should  bend  the  old  tree  and  make  us  fear  that 
it  would  fall.  It  was  necessary  that  a  heavy 
and  sudden  shower  should  wash  the  inside  of 
the  nest,  in  order  that  the  ring,  itself  washed, 
should  immediately  strike  us  by  its  brilliancy. 
It  was  necessary  that  lively  and  playful  chil- 
dren, who  would  not  seek  to  hide  what  they 
had  found,  should  first  have  discovered  the 
ring.  It  was  .necessary  that  Juliette  herself, 
who  had  made  herself  guilty  of  the  falsehood, 
should  be  the  first  to  proclaim,  if  I  may  so 
speak,  loudly,  by  a  scream,  the  innocence  of 
Mary.  This  is  not  the  only  example  of  so 
marvellous  a  story.  It  is  true,  that  God  has 
reserved  to  himself  the  business  of  submitting 
all  the  old  cases  to  a  revision,  only  in  another 
world,  and  to  render  to  every  one  the  justice 
that  is  due  to  him,  sending  him  to  inherit  life 
or  death.  However,  he  sometimes  permits 


OF    FLOWERS.  117 

events  to  occur  even  upon  earth,  to  oblige  you 
to  turn  your  looks  to  him,  to  the  sovereign 
Judge,  who  is  not  open  to  any  surprise,  and  who 
thus  forces  us  to  believe  that  eternal  justice 
governs  all  things,  and  renders  unto  all  their 
dues.'  Such  were  the  words  which  the  judge 
pronounced  in  a  vehement  tone.  Every  one 
listened  attentively  to  his  discourse  :  they 
agreed  that  he  was  right,  and  they  all  dis- 
persed with  a  pensive  air.  That,  my  dear 
Mary,  is  the  way  in  which  the  ring  was  found." 
While  Amelia  was  relating  this  fortunate 
adventure,  they  had  arrived  at  the  door  of  the 
castle. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

The  Injustice  done  to  Mary  acknowledged  and  repaired. 

THE  Count,  the  Countess,  and  the  other 
people  of  the  house  were  assembled  in  the 
drawing-room  of  the  castle,  which  was  deco- 
rated with  taste  and  magnificence.  Some 
time  had  elapsed  since  the  worthy  minister  had 
arrived  in  the  parlour,  and  all  the  company 
had  been  listening  with  the  greatest  interest 
to  what  he  had  been  saying  of  James  and 
Mary.  Indeed  he  spoke  from  the  heart,  re- 
lated in  an  animated  tone  the  history  of  the 
pious  old  man,  painted  in  rich  and  touching 


118  THE    BASKET 

colours  the  noble  sentiments  and  all  the  con- 
duct of  this  upright  man  during  his  residence 
at  the  Pine  Cottage — spoke  particularly  of. 
his  respect  and  love  for  the  Count  and  his 
family.  He  related  numerous  instances  of 
the  filial  piety  of  Mary,  of  her  indefatigable 
activity,  of  her  patience  and  modesty.  Tears 
streamed  from  the  eyes  of  all  who  listened  to 
him.  At  this  moment,  the  Countess  Amelia, 
holding  Mary  by  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  carrying  the  basket  of  flowers,  entered 
the  richly  lighted  room.  Every  one  tried  to 
outdo  his  fellow  in  welcoming  her,  and  Mary 
was  loaded  with  congratulations.  The  Count 
took  her  kindly  by  the  hand,  and  said,  "Poor 
child,  how  pale  and  thin  you  look.  It  was 
our  inconsiderate  conduct  that  deprived  your 
cheeks  of  their  fresh  colour,  and  furrowed 
with  wrinkles  your  young  forehead,  lately  so 
smooth.  We  will  spare  nothing  that  the 
faded  flowers  may  once  more  bloom  on  your 
cheeks.  We  chased  you  from  the  paternal 
roof;  you  shall  have  the  house  in  future  for 
your  property.  O  yes,  your  father  only  en- 
joyed the  pretty  house  and  handsome  garden 
of  Eichbourg  as  a  tenant,  but  now  it  shall  be 
yours."  The  Countess  kissed  Mary,  pressed 
her  to  her  heart,  called  her  her  daughter,  and 
taking  from  her  finger  the  ring  which  had 
caused  so  many  misfortunes — "  Here,  my 
dear  child,"  said  she,  "  your  piety  is  a  jewel 


OF    FLOWERS.  119 

more  precious,  it  is  true,  than  the  large  dia- 
mond which  sparkles  in  this  ring.  Still,  al- 
though you  possess  a  richer  treasure,  accept 
this  present — receive  it  as  a  feeble  ctfmpensa- 
tion  for  the  wrong  which  you  have  suffered, 
and  as  a  token  of  the  sincere  attachment  and 
maternal  tenderness  that  I  feel  towards  you." 
At  these  words  she  put  the  ring  on  Mary's 
finger.  Mary,  who  had  shed  so  many  bitter 
tears,  now  shed  very  sweet  ones.  She  was 
almost  overcome  with  so  much  kindness,  and 
ready  to  sink  under  the  weight  of  the  benefits, 
as  if  it  was  a  heavy  burden.  "  Poor  child," 
said  one  of  the  company,  "take  what  a  gene- 
rous benefactor  offers  you.  God  has  loaded 
the  Count  and  his  wife  with  the  goods  of  for- 
tune, but  he  has  given  them  something  more 
precious — hearts  which  know  how  to  make 
the  best  use  of  their  riches." — "  Why  do  you 
flatter  us  ?"  said  the  Countess  ;  "  this  is  not 
a  generous  action — it  is  but  an  act  Q$  jus- 
tice" 

Mary,  always  modest,  held  with  a  trem- 
bling hand  the  ring  which  she  had  taken,  and 
turned  her  eyes,  wet  with  tears,  towards  the 
minister,  to  know  what  she  was  to  do.  "  Yes, 
Mary,"  said  the  venerable  minister,  "  yes, 
you  must  keep  the  ring.  You  see,  my  good 
child,  God  is  blessing  your  filial  piety ;  for 
whoever  sincerely  honours  his  parents  shall 
be  the  better  for  it.  God  has  promised  it,  and 


120  THE    BASKET 

God  makes  use  of  the  benevolent  hand  of  the 
Count  and  Countess  to  fulfil  his  word.  Re- 
ceive, then,  this  rich  present  with  gratitude, 
and  since  adversity  has  found  in  you  a  due 
resignation  to  the  Divine  will,  you  have  only 
to  show  yourself  in  prosperity  grateful  to  his 
name,  benevolent  and  kind."  Mary  put  the 
ring  on  her  finger  ;  her  tears  choked  her  ut- 
terance and  expressed  her  gratitude.  Amelia, 
who  stood  beside  her  with  the  basket  of  flow- 
ers in  her  hand,  was  delighted  with  the  gene- 
rous proceedings  of  her  parents.  Her  eyes 
shone  with  affection  for  Mary.  The  minister, 
who  had  but  too  often  observed  how  envious 
children  generally  are  when  their  parents  ex- 
ercise their  benevolence  towards  other  people, 
was  only  more  touched  by  the  disinterested- 
ness of  Amelia.  "  May  God,"  said  he,  "  re- 
ward the  generosity  of  the  Count  and  Countess, 
and  may  all  that  they  have  done  for  a  poor 
orphan  be  rendered  to  them  a  hundred  fold, 
in  the  person  of  their  own  dear  daughter." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

Another  remarkable  Circumstance  of  this  History. 

THE  Countess  ordered  supper  to  be  brought, 
and  chose  that  Mary  should  eat  with  her.. 
While  the  blessing  was  pronouncing,  accord- 


OF     FLOWERS.  121 

ing  to  an  excellent  custom  which  then  reigned 
generally  amongst  the  highest  class  of  people, 
Mary  experienced  quite  an  extraordinary 
emotion.  She  was  invited  to  sit  down  between 
the  Countess  and  her  daughter  Amelia.  She 
objected,  with  a  timidity  suitable  to  her  age 
and  sex,  to  accept  this  place  of  honour. 
But  the  Countess  insisted  on  it,  and  taking 
her  by  the  hand,  led  her  to  the  place  des- 
tined for  her.  During  the  repast  nothing 
was  talked  of  but  Mary's  story.  The  Count 
had  brought  with  him  the  old  huntsman,  the 
honest  Anthony,  who  was  perfectly  acquainted 
with  the  forest.  This  faithful  servant,  more 
from  pleasure  than  duty,  always  assisted  in 
waiting  upon  his  master's  table.  That  even- 
ing he  stood  almost  all  the  time  behind  Mary's 
chair,  and  did  not  cease  to  wipe  his  tears. 
His  age  had  given  him  the  right  to  put  in  a 
word  here  and  there.  "  Is  it  not  true,  Miss 
Mary  ?"  said  he.  "  Do  we  not  at  last  see  the 
fulfilment  of  what  I  told  you  and  your  father 
in  the  forest  ?  he  who  trusts  in  God  may  be 
sure  of  divine  protection.  Only  one  thing  is 
wanting.  If  your  father,  that  old,  that  re- 
spectable friend  of  my  youth,  had  lived  long 
enough  to  see  the  light  of  this  joyful  day  ! 
That  good  father  James  !  Ah  !  what  happi- 
ness it  would  have  been  for  him  here  to  con- 
template the  dearest  object  of  his  love  on 
earth,  his  daughter,  acknowledged  innocent, 


122  THE    BASKET 

and  thus  loaded  with  honour.  Why  did  he 
not  live  to  see  this  day,  and  taste  so  great  a 
pleasure?" — "  Good  old  man,"  said  the  minis- 
ter, "  I  admire  your  sentiments,  for  they  do 
honour  to  your  heart ;  but  our  view  must  not 
be  limited  by  the  short  horizon  of  this  life.  It 
is  the  smallest  and,  I  dare  say,  the  most  mise- 
rable portion  of  our  existence,  taken  in  its  ex- 
tent. This  world  is  only  the  vestibule  to  an- 
other. The  life  we  live  upon  earth  is  only 
the  preparation  for  a  better  one  which  is  re- 
served for  us  in  heaven.  Now  if  we  consider 
the  existence  of  man  without  regarding  his 
future  destination,  we  shall  make  great  errors. 
But  let  us  raise  our  eyes  to  heaven,  and  then 
such  views  will  offer  themselves  to  us  as 
will  console  our  minds  respecting  every  dis- 
pensation. That  was  the  case  with  Mary  arid 
James.  The  misfortunes  that  this  young  girl 
endured  have  been  already  recompensed  in  a 
most  noble  manner.  As  for  her  father,  it 
seemed  good  to  God  that  he  should  die  mis- 
judged, and  plunged  into  the  depths  of  mise- 
ry. But  there  is  another  and  better  life. 
There  is,  happily  for  us,  a  celestial  dwelling- 
place.  It  is  there — it  is  in  heaven  that  the 
good  man  is  released  from  all  his  sufferings. 
It  is  there  that  he  now  tastes  the  joys  and 
the  sweets  of  a  glorious  felicity,  and  we  who 
are  seated  at  this  banquet,  in  this  brilliant 
room,  have  not  a  shadow  of  the  pleasure 


OF    FLOWERS.  123 

which  he  enjoys.  But  more — I  do  not  know 
why — but  my  heart  tells  me,  and  in  many 
cases  it  is  better  to  believe  one's  heart  than 
one's  head,  my  heart  tells  me  that  this  pious 
old  man  who  carried  with  him  to  heaven  the 
sentiments  of  a  father,  takes  more  pleasure  in 
this  development  than  we  think.  Let  me  re- 
late a  fact  which  I  had  almost  forgotten  among 
so  many  other  things. 

"  I  went  one  morning  to  his  bedside.  What- 
ever was  his  confidence  in  divine  Providence, 
he  could  not,  however,  help  expressing  some 
anxiety  respecting  his  dear  daughter  ;  but  that 
day  I  found  him  uncommonly  cheerful,  his 
countenance  was  serene,  and  there  was  a 
smile  upon  his  lips :  he  held  his  hand  out  of 
bed  to  me,  and  said,  '  Now,  sir,  I  am  at  last 
freed  from  the  burden  that  was  on  my  heart, 
my  anxiety  concerning  my  daughter ;  I  now 
am  perfectly  tranquil.  Last  night  I  prayed 
with  more  fervour  than  I  ever  perhaps  did  in 
my  life,  and  I  felt  in  my  heart  the  sweetness 
of  a  calm,  unknown  until  now,  and  a  conso- 
lation truly  divine.  I  feel  firmly  confident 
that  my  prayer  will  be  heard.  I  shut  my 
eyes  and  slept  quite  composedly,  for  I  know 
that  the  innocence  of  my  daughter  will  be  dis- 
covered— the  noble  Count  will  take  care  of 
her  as  a  father,  and  she  will  find  a  mother  in 
the  Countess.'  Such  were  the  words  of  the 
pious  old  man ;  and  this  evening  at  table  I 


124  THE    BASKET 

have  just  learned,  to  my  great  astonishment, 
that,  that  very  night  the  violence  of  the  wind 
had  bent  down  the  old  tree  which  grew  in  the. 
garden  of  the  castle,  and  thus  shown  to  the 
world,  with  the  ring  that  was  lost,  the  un- 
known innocence  of  Mary.  Thus  even  at 
the  very  moment  was  his  fervent  prayer  an- 
swered. It  is  a  consolation  to  me  to  think 
that  even  beyond  the  tomb  he  is  not  a  stranger 
to  the  happiness  of  his  daughter,  the  object 
of  so  much  tenderness ;  and  that  he  partici- 
pates in  our  joys.  One  thing  is  certain,  that 
the  prayer  of  this  pious  old  man,  offered  up 
that  night,  and  immediately  answered,  en- 
lightens this  chain  of  events,  with  a  light 
which  rejoices  the  soul.  It  appears  to  make 
this  little  history  a  work  of  divine  Providence. 
No,"  continued  the  minister,  with  emotion, 
'*  our  meeting  here  is  not  the  effect  of  acci- 
dent; it  is  not  a  blind  chance,  which  has  pre- 
pared this  touching  scene,  which  has  filled  us 
with  so  much  happiness.  It  is  the  goodness 
of  God — it  is  his  holy  Providence  which  has 
conducted  me,  a  stranger,  into  the  midst  of 
this  company.  He  has  willed  that  I  should 
bear  witness  of  him  in  revealing  a  circum- 
stance confided  to  me  by  the  dying,  and  which 
has  caused  us  to  penetrate  into  the  secrets  of 
this  history.  May  we  be  convinced  by  this 
event  that  God  overrules  all  events.  May 
we  be  persuaded  that  we  have  on  high  a 


OF    FLOWERS.  125 

Father  whose  heart  beats  with  love  for  us. 
May  we  retain  so  sweet  a  belief  in  life  and  in 
death  !" — "  That  belief,  my  dear  minister," 
said  the  Countess,  rising  and  giving  him  her 
hand,  "  I  share  with  you."  Every  one  pre- 
sent had  the  same  sentiment,  and  they  all  rose 
as  she  had  done.  "  It  is  now  late,"  added 
the  Countess,  "  and  as  we  shall  set  out  very 
early  to-morrow  morning,  we  must  rest  a  little, 
and  we  will  separate  for  the  present,  in  order 
to  avoid  any  distraction  which  might  make 
us  lose  the  good  feelings  which  the  minister 
has  awakened  in  us.  We  could  not  better 
finish  the  day."  They  all  separated  with 
hearts  full  of  gratitude  to  God. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

Visit  to  the  Pine  Farm. 

THE  next  morning,  as  soon  as  the  sun  was 
up,  everybody  in  the  castle  was  occupied  in 
preparing  for  the  departure ;  but  nothing  could 
equal  the  attention  which  they  all  paid  to 
Mary.  During  her  residence  at  the  Pine 
Farm,  as  Mary  was  obliged  to  buy  herself 
clothes,  she  was  able  to  get  only  those  of  the 
coarsest  character,  and  she  was,  therefore, 
dressed  almost  exactly  as  the  villagers  of  the 
country. 

L  2 


126  THE    BASKET 

But  a  young  lady  who  was  of  the  same 
age  and  size  as  Mary,  presented  her,  at  the  re- 
quest of  Amelia,  with  a  complete  dress,  neat, 
handsome,  and  new,  and  such  as,  without  be- 
ing at  all  extravagant,  suited  her  new  situa- 
tion— "  For,"  said  Amelia,  "  henceforth  you 
are  my  friend,  my  companion,  and  you  will 
always  live  with  me ;  therefore,  you  ought  to 
dress  yourself  differently." 

After  breakfast  they  went  riding,  and  Mary 
was  placed  beside  Amelia,  opposite  to  the 
Count  and  Countess.  The  Count  ordered  the 
coachman  to  take  them  to  the  Pine  Farm,  be- 
cause he  wished  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  people  who  had  given  Mary  and  her  fa- 
ther so  hearty  a  welcome.  On  the  way  they 
inquired  about  their  situation  with  great  in- 
terest, and  Mary  did  not  hide  from  them  that 
they  were  far  from  being  happy,  and  that  they 
had  scarcely  any  peaceful  moments  to  hope 
for  in  their  old  days.  The  arrival  of  the  car- 
riage made  not  a  little  noise  at  the  Pine  Farm ; 
for  since  the  existence  of  the  farm  never  per- 
haps had  a  carriage, — at  least  never  had  so 
handsome  a  one, — been  there.  No  sooner  had 
the  young  farmer's  wife  seen  the  carriage  stop 
before  the  door,  than  she  hastened  to  go.  to  it. 
"  Sir,"  said  she,  "  allow  me  to  assist  you  to 
get  out,  and  also  the  ladies,  your  daughters,  I 
presume."  She  had  just  presented  her  hand 
to  one  of  the  young  ladies  when  she  recog- 


OF    FLOWERS.  127 

nised  her  to  be  Mary  herself,  and  with  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  she  let  go  her  hand 
as  if  she  had  touched  a  serpent,  drew  back, 
and  blushed  and  grew  pale  by  turns.  The 
old  farmer  was  working  in  his  garden.  The 
Count,  the  Countess,  and  Amelia  ran  to  this 
good  old  man,  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
thanked  him  for  his  benevolence  towards 
Mary  and  her  father,  and  thanked  him  for  it 
in  the  most  affectionate  manner.  "  Ah," 
said  the  honest  peasant,  "  I  owe  that  good 
man  more  than  he  ever  owed  me.  The  bless- 
ing of  heaven  came  with  him  into  our  house, 
and  if  I  had  followed  his  advice  in  every  thing, 
I  should  have  been  much  better  for  it  at  this 
moment.  Since  his  death  I  have  no  pleasure 
in  any  thing  but  this  garden.  It  is,  besides,  to 
his  wise  advice  that  I  am  indebted  for  reserv- 
ing this  little  corner  of  ground,  and  from  him 
I  learned  to  cultivate  it.  Since  I  have  not  had 
strength  to  follow  the  plough,  I  have  occupied 
myself  here,  and  I  seek  among  herbs  and 
flowers  the  peace  that  I  no  longer  find  in  my 
house."  In  the  mean  time  Mary  had  gone  to 
look  for  the  old  farmer's  wife  in  her  little 
room,  and  she  was  now  leading  her  by  the 
hand.  She  begged  her  continually  not  to  be 
alarmed,  for  the  good  woman  was  quite  over- 
come. She  approached  with  a  timid  and 
embarrassed  air,  and  was  distressed  to  find 
herself  overwhelmed  with  thanks. 


128  THE    BASKET 

The  good  old  people  were  very  much  con- 
fused, and  cried  for  joy  like  children.  At 
last  the  farmer,  addressing  Mary,  said,  "  Did  I 
not  well  tell  you  that  your  filial  piety  would  re- 
ceive its  reward  ?  Well,  there  is  my  prophecy 
fulfilled."  Meanwhile  the  old  woman  had 
taken  courage,  and  said,  "  Yes,  yes,  your  fa- 
ther was  right  with  his  maxim :  *  He  who 
clothes  the  flowers  well  knows  how  to  take 
care  of  you.'  "  Their  daughter-in-law  stood 
at  some  distance,  and  said  within  herself, 
"  Well,  well !  What  won't  happen  in  this 
life  !  This  miserable  beggar — now  look  at 
her ! — She  is  a  young  lady  of  high  rank. 
Who  would  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  ? 
There  is  not  a  woman  in  our  town  who  can 
be  compared  with  her  now.  But  every  one 
knows,  however,  who  she  is.  They  know 
that  yesterday  she  set  out  from  here,  with  her 
little  package  under  her  arm,  to  go  and  beg 
here  and  there  in  the  country."  The  Count 
had  not  heard  this  abusive  language,  but  it 
was  enough  for  him  to  see  the  mocking  look 
and  the  angry  appearance  of  this  woman. 
"  That  is  a  wicked  creature,"  said  he,  and 
he  walked  twice  round  the  garden  in  a  very 
thoughtful  mood.  "Listen,  my  good  old  man," 
said  he  at  last,  stopping  before  the  farmer.  "  I 
have  a  proposition  to  make  to  you.  I  have 
given  Mary  the  little  piece  of  ground  which- 
was  cultivated  by  her  father.  But  Mary  is  not 


OF    FLOWERS.  129 

yet  ready  to  go  to  housekeeping.  What  can 
prevent  you  from  retiring  there  ?  It  will  suit 
you,  I  am  certain,  and  I  know  beforehand  that 
the  owner  will  not  exact  any  rent  from  you. 
You  can  there  cultivate  as  you  choose  herbs 
and  flowers ;  and,  above  all,  you  will  find  in  that 
pretty  habitation  both  rest  and  peace  in  your 
old  days."  The  Count's  wife,  the  Countess, 
Amelia,  and  Mary,  insisted  that  the  old  people 
should  accept  this  offer.  But  there  was  no 
need  of  persuasion.  They  were  happy  to  be 
taken  from  their  present  uncomfortable  situa- 
tion. At  this  moment  the  young  farmer  came 
home  from, the  fields.  He  was  very  anxious 
to  know  what  miracle  brought  to  his  farm  a 
carriage  drawn  by  four  fine  white  horses. 
The  moment  he  knew  what  was  talked  about 
he  consented  to  it,  although  it  cost  him  a 
great  deal  to  part  with  his  old  parents.  His 
greatest  grief  had  been  to  see  them  so  badly 
treated  by  their  own  daughter-in-law,  and  it 
was  a  great  consolation  for  him  to  think  that 
they  were  going  to  be  more  happy.  The 
young  farmer's  wife,  completely  overcome  by 
passion  at  finding  this  state  of  things,  said  to 
the  Count,  "  It  is  a  great  favour  that  you  are 
bestowing  on  us,  in  getting  us  rid  of  these  old 
people."  The  Count  promised  he  would  send 
for  the  old  man  and  his  wife  as  soon  as  every 
thing  was  ready.  Then  he  and  the  company 
stepped  into  the  carriage  and  rode  off. 


130  THE     BASKET 

CHAPTER    XX. 

The  Consequences  of  the  Love  of  the  World. 

THE  noble  Count  did  not  fail  to  keep  his 
word.  The  next  autumn  a  carriage  was 
sent  from  Eichbourg  to  the  Pine  Farm  to 
bring  the  old  people.  The  son  wept  bitterly 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  going  to  lose  his 
old  father  and  mother.  The  daughter-in-law, 
who  had  counted  the  days  and  hours  until 
the  moment  of  their  departure,  felt  the  keenest 
joy  in  being  at  last  quite  rid  of  them.  But  it 
was  soon  seen  that  her  joy  was  not  to  be  un- 
alloyed. The  coachman  presented  her  with  a 
note  signifying  that  she  should  pay  all  that 
had  been  stipulated  for  the  support  of  her  fa- 
ther and  mother-in-law,  and  that  the  price  of 
the  provisions,  valued  in  money  according  to 
the  current  market  price,  should'  be  paid  by  her 
every  quarter.  She  became  violently  angry, 
fretted,  and  fumed.  "  We  are  overreached, 
after  all,"  said  she.  "  If  they  had  stayed  here,  it 
would  not  have  cost  half  as  much."  The  son 
was  delighted  that  he  could  thus  soothe  the 
old  age  of  his  parents  in  spite  of  his  wife,  but 
he  took  good  care  not  to  show  his  joy.  The 
good  people  set  off  in  the  carriage  the  next 
morning,  followed  by  the  blessings  of  their  son, 
and  the  secret  maledictions  of  their  daughter- 
in-law.  This  wicked  woman  had  the  fate 


OF     FLOWERS.  131 

which  her  conduct  towards  her  parents  de- 
served, and  which  is  always  the  lot  of  avarice 
and  inhumanity.  She  had  placed  her  money 
in  the  hands  of  a  merchant  who  had  just  set 
up  a  manufactory,  and  who  had  promised  to 
pay  her  ten  per  cent.  The  annual  interest 
was  added  to  the  capital,  which  produced 
new  interest,  and  this  also  produced  other. 
The  farmer's  wife  thought  herself  the  happiest 
of  women,  and  had  no  greater  pleasure  in  the 
world  than  to  make  her  calculation  of  the  sum 
to  which  all  this  money  would  amount  in  ten 
and  in  twenty  years.  But  to  all  these  happy 
dreams  soon  succeeded  a  sudden  and  terrible 
reverse.  The  enterprise  of  the  merchant  did 
not  succeed,  and  his  goods  were  sold  by  the 
order  of  the  sheriff.  This  was  a  thunder- 
stroke for  the  farmer's  wife.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  she  heard  of  this  catastrophe  she  no 
longer  had  any  repose.  She  was  seen  almost 
all  day  either  on  the  road  running  to  the  law- 
yer or  to  her  neighbours,  complaining  of 
her  hard  lot,  and  she  spent  the  night  in  weep- 
ing and  scolding.  At  last,  instead  of  her  ten 
thousand  dollars,  she  received  some  hundreds. 
Then  she  gave  up  to  despair  ;  life  was  terrible 
to  her,  and  she  wished  for  death.  Eaten  up 
with  continual  cares,  weakened  and  worn  out, 
she  was  attacked  with  a  fever  which  never 
left  her.  Her  husband  wished  to  go  for  the 
physician  of  the  village,  but  she  would  not 


132  THE    BASKET 

consent  to  it.  For  this  time  the  farmer  re- 
sisted seriously,  and  sent  for  the  doctor  ;  but 
his  wife  in  a  passion  threw  the  medicine  out 
of  the  window,  without  having  even  uncorked' 
the  bottle.  At  last  she  became  so  seriously 
ill,  that  her  husband  requested  the  minister  of 
Erlenbrunn  to  come  and  see  her.  He  did  so 
frequently  during  her  sickness,  and  talked  to 
her  in  the  most  persuasive  tone,  to  induce  her 
to  repent  and  amend  her  ways,  to  detach  her 
heart  from  the  things  of  this  earth  and  to  turn 
to  God.  But  this  advice  made  her  very 
angry.  She  looked  at  the  good  minister  with 
utter  astonishment.  "  I  do  not  know,"  said 
she,  "  for  what  purpose  the  minister  comes  to 
preach  penitence  to  me.  He  ought  to  have 
delivered  such  a  sermon  to  the  merchant  who 
stole  our  money  ;  yes,  that  would  have  been 
just  the  thing.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  see  that 
I  have  any  great  need  of  repentance.  As  long 
as  I  was  able  to  go  out,  I  went  regularly  to 
church  on  Sunday,  and  at  home  I  never  failed 
to  say  my  prayers  every  day.  I  have  not 
ceased  to  work  all  my  life  to  heap  up  money, 
and  to  behave  like  the  most  perfect  model  of 
virtue  and  economy.  I  defy  any  living  soul 
to  slander  me,  and  among  all  the  poor  people 
who  have  come  to  my  door,  not  one  of  them 
can  complain  that  I  sent  him  away  without 
giving  him  something.  Now  I  should  like  to 
know  how  any  one  can  behave  better.  I 


OF    FLOWERS.  133 

should  have  thought  that  the  minister  would 
have  considered  me  one  of  the  most  pious  and 
virtuous  people  of  all  his  parish."  The 
venerable  pastor  saw  himself  obliged  to  take 
a  more  expressive  tone  to  lead  her  to  amend 
her  ways.  He  proved  to  her  at  last,  and  in 
the  most  palpable  manner,  that  she  loved  money 
more  than  any  thing  in  the  world ;  and  that 
avarice,  which  she  was  wrong  in  confounding 
with  economy,  was  effectually  a  real  idolatry. 
He  represented  to  her  that  she  must  put  among 
her  sins  these  transports  of  anger  which  over- 
came her  ;  that  the  most  lovely  of  all  virtues, 
filial  affection,  had  totally  failed  her  ;  that  by 
her  avarice  she  had  poisoned  the  days  of  her 
husband,  cruelly  driven  away  the  poor  orphan 
Mary,  and  even  turned  off  her  husband's  old 
parents, — those  whom  she  ought  to  have  che- 
rished and  honoured  as  if  they  were  her  own  ; 
that  with  a  fortune  like  hers,  she  was  far  from 
having  fulfilled  the  important  duty  of  charity 
from  having  given  here  and  there  a  little  piece 
of  bread  or  a  handful  of  flowers  to  a  poor 
man,  often  merely  to  get  rid  of  him  ;  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  true  love  to  man,  founded  on 
sincere  love  to  God  ;  that  the  essence  of 
Christianity  was  love  to  God  and  men ;  that 
in  spite  of  all  her  boasting  of  going  to  church, 
public  worship  could  not  save  her  soul,  for  it 
had  never  made  her  any  better ;  and  finally, 
that  all  her  prayers,  coming  from  a  heart  un- 
M 


134  THE    BASKET 

warmed  by  love,  could  not  be  truly  prayer. 
In  this  faithful  way  did  he  talk  to  her,  but  she 
would  not  allow  the  zealous  pastor  to  say  any 
more.  She  began  to  sob  and  cry  out  of  pas- 
sion. 

The  good  pastor,  quite  troubled,  took  his 
hat  and  cane  and  went  away.  "  Alas  !"  said 
he,  "  how  difficult  it  is  for  a  heart  set  upon 
the  things  of  this  world  to  taste  those  of 
heaven  !  How  far  is  such  a  heart  from  the 
kingdom  of  God.  Such  a  heart  considers 
itself  excused  before  God  by  the  repetition  of 
a  few  vain  words,  and  thinks  its  duty  towards 
its  neighbour  is  performed  by  throwing  to  the 
poor  a  few  superfluous  crumbs.  However, 
people  remain  incorrigible,  and  go  so  far  in 
their  blindness  as  to  mistake  vice  for  virtue. 
Alas  !"  said,  he,  in  passing  near  the  garden 
and  looking  at  it,  "  how  wrong  some  people 
are  in  supposing  that  to  be  rich  is  to  be  happy. 
This  farmer's  rich  wife,  with  all  her  money  and 
all  her  goods,  never  had  in  her  life  one  of 
those  happy  hours  which  were  bestowed  in  such 
rich  plenty  on  poor  Mary  amidst  the  flowers 
of  this  garden."  However,  the  farmer's  wife 
had  yet  much  to  suffer.  She  spent  whole 
nights  in  coughing.  Her  avarice  scarcely  al- 
lowed her  to  take  the  proper  remedies  or 
nourishment.  Her  sufferings  were  not  miti- 
gated by  any  consoling  thought.  She  was 
utterly  unwilling  to  resign  herself  to  God  and 


OF    FLOWERS.  135 

to  submit  to  the  Divine  will.  The  good  mi- 
nister tried  in  every  imaginable  way  to  bring 
her  mind  to  a  better  frame.  She  was  occa- 
sionally a  little  softened  during  the  last  days 
of  her  life,  but  never  evinced  any  true  repent- 
ance. At  last  she  died  in  the  flower  of  her 
age,  a  deplorable  instance  of  the  effects  of 
avarice,  and  passion,  and  love  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

I..-*™ 

Mary's  Spirit  of  Christian  Forgiveness. 

AFTER  a  while  Mary  went  with  the  family 
of  the  Count  to  the  city,  in  which  he  resided 
part  of  the  year.  While  there  a  clergyman, 
\vhose  white  hairs  announced  an  advanced  age, 
came  one  morning  to  the  residence  of  the 
Count,  and  asked  for  Mary.  He  told  her  he 
was  charged  with  a  commission  for  her.  A 
person  very  ill,  and  probably  near  to  death, 
desired  to  speak  with  her  before  she  died. 
She  could  not  die  in  peace  unless  this  favour 
was  granted  her.  The  old  minister  said,  that 
the  person  was  not  willing  to  say  any  thing 
except  to  Mary  herself.  This  request  as- 
tonished Mary  very  much.  She  consulted 
the  Countess  as  to  what  she  ought  to  do. 
The  Countess,  who  knew  the  clergyman  to  be 
a  pious  and  prudent  man,  advised  her  to  go 


136  THE    BASKET 

with  him.  At  the  request  of  the  clergyman, 
old  Anthony  accompanied  them.  Mary  walk- 
ed for  a  long  time  to  the  most  retired  part  of 
the  suburbs.  She  arrived  at  last  at  the  door  of 
a  house  situated  in  a  by-street,  which  presented 
the  most  gloomy  aspect.  There  were  five 
staircases  to  mount,  the  two  last  of  which 
were  so  dark,  so  narrow,  and  so  broken  that 
she  felt  seized  with  fear.  Then  the  clergyman 
stopped  before  an  old  door  formed  of  planks 
nailed  together  without  having  been  planed. 
"  This  is  it,"  said  he ;  "  but  wait  a  little." 
He  went  in  for  a  moment,  and  then  returned 
for  Mary,  who  then  entered  with  him  the 
most  miserable  garret  ever  seen.  The  window 
was  narrow  and  dark,  and  the  panes  were 
filled  with  paper.  A  forlorn  truckle-bed, 
covered  with  a  more  forlorn  mattrass  or  rather 
an  old  straw  bed,  a  broken  chair  near  the  bed, 
a  stone  pitcher  on  the  chair,  with  neither  handle 
nor  cover,  composed  the  furniture.  The  pa- 
tient stretched  on  the  bed  was  truly  a  frightful 
object.  Mary  thought  she  saw  a  skeleton 
move,  and  begin  to  speak  with  a  frightful 
voice,  which  resembled  the  rattle  of  death, 
and  extend  to  her  a  hand  which  seemed  no- 
thing but  skin  and  bone.  She  trembled  in 
every  limb.  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
at  last  she  learned,  by  the  indistinct  words 
pronounced  with  difficulty,  that  this  frightful 
phantom  was  Juliette, — Juliette*  who,  at  the 


OF    FLOWERS.  137 

castle  of  Eichbourg,  had  been  the  cause  of  all 
her  distress.  This  wretched  woman  had 
learned  from  the  minister  that  Mary  was  in 
the  city  with  the  family  of  the  Count.  Her 
design  in  sending  for  her  was  to  ask  her  par- 
don with  respect  to  the  ring.  If  she  had 
begged  the  clergyman  not  to  mention  her 
name,  it  was  because  she  was  afraid  that  Mary, 
justly  irritated,  would  refuse  to  come.  Mary 
had  too  much  Christian  sensibility  not  to  be 
affected  even  to  tears.  She  made  many  de- 
clarations, assuring  her  that  all,  absolutely  all, 
was  forgiven  a  long  time  since,  and  that  the 
only  feeling  she  experienced  was  a  sentiment 
of  the  deepest  and  most  lively  pity.  "  Alas  !" 
said  Juliette,  "I  am  a  great  sinner  ;  I  have 
deserved  my  fate.  Forgetfulness  of  God, 
contempt  of  good  advice,  the  exclusive  love 
of  dress,  of  flattery  and  of  pleasure,  was  the 
first  source  of  misery,  and  this  it  is  which  has 
brought  me  so  low.  I  die  the  victim  of  my 
follies.  Ah  !"  cried  she,  raising  her  voice  in 
a  pathetic  tone,  and  weeping  bitterly,  "  I  fear 
a  more  dreadful  state  awaits  me  in  the  other 
world.  You  have  deigned  to  pardon  me,  you 
whom  I  so  cruelly  offended,  but  I  feel  the 
weight  of  God's  displeasure  now  settling  on 
my  soul."  Mary  had  a  long  conversation 
with  her,  and  endeavoured  to  turn  her  to  the 
precious  Saviour,  who  would  receive  her  if 
she  would  repent.  But  she  was  obliged  to 

M2 


138  THE    BASKET 

leave  her  without  being  satisfied  as  to  her  state 
of  mind,  and  the  idea  of  the  sinful  Juliette 
perishing  without  hope  continually  pressed  on 
her  mind,  and  weighed  down  her  spirits.  She  ' 
**was  continually  saying  to  herself,  "  That 
frightful  phantom  was  Juliette,  the  beautiful 
Juliette."  These  words  were  in  her  mouth 
almost  every  instant  of  the  day.  Then  she 
recollected  her  little  apple-tree  in  blossom 
withered  by  the  frost.  "What  her  father  had 
said  to  her  on  that  occasion,  the  most  consol- 
ing words  he  had  said  on  his  death-bed,  pre- 
sented themselves  to  her  mind,  and  she  re- 
newed the  promise  which  she  had  made  to 
God  to  live  entirely  to  his  glory.  She  re- 
membered the  declaration  of  our  Saviour  : 
"  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and  pray  for 
them  who  despitefully  use  you  and  persecute 
you."  Under  these  feelings  she  implored  the 
Countess  to  relieve  the  distress  of  Juliette. 
This  generous  lady  sent  her  medicine,  food, 
linen,  and  every  thing  of  which  she  stood  in 
need.  But  it  was  all  too  late.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-three,  she  died  a  miserable  evidence  of 
the  folly  and  wickedness  of  doing  Injury  to 
others  to  promote  what  we  absurdly  suppose 
our  own  advantage.  Juliette  gave  no  evidence 
of  repentance,  but  died,  as  she  had  lived,  with- 
out God  and  without  hope. 


OF    FLOWERS.  139 

CHAPTER   XXII. 

Mary's  happy  and  useful  Life. 

THE  next  spring,  when  the  country  was 
covered  with  verdure  and  flowers,  the  Count, 
accompanied  by  his  wife  and  daughter,  went 
to  his  house  at  Eichbourg.  Mary  accompanied 
them,  and  took  her  accustomed  place  in  the 
carriage  by  the  side  of  Amelia.  Towards 
evening,  when  they  approached  Eichbourg, 
and  when  Mary  saw,  by  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun,  the  steeple  of  the  church,  the  Count's 
castle,  and  her  father's  house,  she  was  so  much 
touched  that  she  could  not  restrain  her  tears. 
"  Alas  !"  said  she,  "  when  I  left  Eichbourg,  I 
was  far  from  expecting  ever  to  come  back 
again.  How  mysterious  are  the  ways  of 
Providence,  how  good  is  God  !"  The  car- 
riage stopped  before  the  door  of  the  castle. 
The  officers  of  the  Count  and  all  persons  at- 
tached to  his  service  were  waiting  to  receive 
him.  Mary  had  a  most  flattering  reception. 
Every  one  evinced  the  greatest  joy  at  seeing 
her  again,  and  congratulated  her  on  having 
been  recognised  so  manifestly  innocent.  The 
old  judge  who  had  condemned  her  took  her 
hand  quite  with  paternal  tenderness,  asked 
her  pardon  in  the  presence  of  all  the  assistants, 
showed  his  gratitude  to  the  Count  and  Countess 
for  the  nobleness  of  their  proceeding  in  the 


140  THE    BASKET 

reparation  of  the  injustice  committed,  and  as- 
sured them  all  that  he  had  to  reproach  himself 
with  this  misfortune  more  than%ny  one,  and 
that  he  was  willing  to  do  every  thing  in  his  ' 
power  to  acquit  his  debt.  The  following  day 
Mary  rose  very  early.  What  had  awakened 
her  so  early  was  partly  joy  and  partly  the 
light  of  the  sun  which  shone  brightly  into  her 
^chamber.  She  ran  to  visit  the  paternal  dweli- 
'ing,  and  also  the  garden.  On  her  way  she 
met  only  countenances  expressive  of  gayety. 
A  crowd  of  young  people,  to  whom  in  their  in- 
fancy she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  giving 
flowers,  had  grown  so  tall  that  she  was  quite 
astonished.  The  old  farmer  and  his  wife,  who 
had  now  been  some  time  settled  on  the  place, 
came  out  to  meet  her,  kissed  her  affectionately, 
and  told  her  how  happily  and  contentedly  they 
lived.  Tears  of  joy  were  in  the  farmer's 
eyes.  "  When,"  said  he,  "  you  were  without 
a  home,  we  received  you  under  our  roof ; 
and  now,  when  we  were  turned  out  of  our  own 
house,  you  give  us  this  charming  habitation  in 
which  we  may  spend  our  declining  days." 
— "  Yes,"  said  his  wife,  "  it  is  always  well  to 
be  obliging  and  hospitable.  Vie  never  know 
how  soon  we  will  receive  it  again." — "  Well, 
well !"  answered  the  old  man,  "  we  did  not 
think  of  that  then  ;  that  was  not  our  object. 
However,  the  maxim  is  not  the  less  true.  Da 
good  to  others,  and  you  will  always  find  some 


OF    FLOWERS.  141 

to  do  good  to  you"  Mary  entered  the  house. 
The  sight  of  the  room,  of  the  place  where  her 
father  used  to  sit,  awoke  in  her  breast  sad  re- 
collections. She  walked  round  the  garden. 
She  kissed  every  tree  planted  by  her  father,  as 
if  in  each  one  she  saw  again  an  old  acquaint- 
ance ;  but  she  stopped  particularly  before  the 
little  apple-tree,  then  all  covered  with  beautiful 
flowers.  "  Alas  !"  said  she,  "  of  what  little 
consequence  is  the  life  of  man  on  earth  !  He 
dies,  and  the  little  bushes  survive  him."  She 
rested  under  the  arbour  where  she  had  passed 
so  many  happy  hours  with  her  father.  While 
she  looked  around  in  this  garden,  which  he 
had  cultivated  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  she 
thought  she  still  saw  him.  Tears  streamed 
from  her  eyes  at  this  recollection.  But  one 
thought  rendered  her  calm  and  soothed  her 
heart;  it  was  that  he  inhabited  a  happier  abode, 
and  that  he  was  reaping  the  harvest  of  the 
seeds  he  had  sown  in  this  world.  Every 
spring  Mary  went  to  spend  some  weeks  at 
the  castle.  Cherished  and  honoured  by  every 
one,  she  there  spent  the  happiest  life,  serving 
God  and  endeavouring  to  do  good.  She  loved 
particularly  to  visit  among  the  children  of  the 
village,  and  to  talk  to  them  of  their  Saviour ; 
and  she  had  the  happiness  of  believing  that 
many  of  them,  under  her  instrumentality,  gave 
their  hearts  to  God.  Thus  she  spent  her  life 
in  doing  good. 


142  THE    BASKET 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 

The  Tomb  of  Mary's  Father. 

THE  tomb  of  James  had  been  finished  ac- 
cording to  the  promise  which  Amelia  had 
made  to  Mary  on  the  grave  of  the  good  man. 
It  was  a  monument  of  elegant  simplicity,  con- 
structed of  white  marble,  and  ornamented  with 
an  epitaph  in  gilded  letters.  To  the  name  of 
the  deceased,  to  his  age,  and  to  his  double 
profession  of  gardener  and  basket-maker,  no- 
thing had  been  added  but  these  words  of 
Jesus,  which  certainly  deserve  to  be  engraven 
in  letters  of  gold.  "  I  am  the  resurrection 
and  the  life ;  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though 
he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live."  Underneath 
a  skilful  workman  had  cut  the  figure  of  the 
basket  which  the  Lord  had  made  use  of  in 
delivering  Maiy  from  her  trouble  on  the  grave 
even  of  her  father.  Amelia  had  drawn  the 
basket  after  having  had  it  filled  with  the  most 
beautiful  flowers  by  the  hand  of  Mary,  and 
the  drawing,  which  was  a  striking  resemblance, 
was  given  to  the  artist.  Underneath  the 
basket  was  written  -this  maxim  of  the  holy 
Scripture,  a  maxim  well  worthy  of  reflecting 
on.  "  All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  the  goodliness 
thereof  as  the  flower  of  the  field.  The  grass 
withereth,  the  flower  fadeth,  but  the  word  of 
the  Lord  endureth  for  ever."  It  was  with 


OF    FLOWERS.  143 

great  pleasure  that  the  good  minister  of  Erlen- 
brunn,  Mary's  early  friend,  had  this  monu- 
ment put  in  its  place.  The  dark  foliage  of 
the  fir-trees  contributed  to  relieve  this  tomb, 
which  presented  to  the  eye  an  uncommonly 
beautiful  aspect  ;  and  when  the  rose-tree, 
growing  on  the  grave,  was  in  bloom,  and 
the  green  branches  covered  with  roses,  some 
half  open,  others  entirely  blown,  bent  over 
the  marble,  which  was  of  a  dazzling  whiteness, 
nothing  could  be  prettier.  This  monument 
was  the  most  beautiful  ornament  of  the  rural 
grave-yard,  and  the  most  remarkable  curiosity 
of  the  village.  The  good  minister  never  re- 
ceived any  strangers  without  carrying  them  to 
see  this  monument.  Every  one  observed  that 
it  was  a  good  idea  to  have  put  a  basket  of 
flowers  on  the  tomb  of  a  man  who  was  at  the 
same  time  a  gardener  and  a  basket-maker. 
"  Ah  !"  the  minister  would  say,  "  it  is  some- 
thing better  than  a  good  idea.  This  basket 
of  flowers  tells  more  than  you  believe,  and  it  is 
not  without  some  reason  that  our  villagers 
look  upon  it  as  a  symbol  of  a  most  touching 
story.  Yes,  this  ground  on  which  we  tread 
has  been  well  bathed  with  tears."  Then  he 
never  failed  to  relate  to  attentive  strangers  the 
history  of  the  basket  of  flowers,  and  conclude 
his  recital  with  this  grand  truth  which  the 
whole  story  is  intended  to  illustrate  :  PIETY  TO 

GOD  AND  TRUTH  TOWARDS  MEN  SHALL  NEVER 


144  BASKET    OF    FLOWERS. 

FAIL    TO    TRIUMPH    OVER    THE    MALICE    OF    THE 

WORST  OF  FOES.  Let  our  readers  be  persuaded 
that,  under  all  circumstances,  it  is  best  to  do 
as  Mary  did  :  fear  God,  reverence  your  earth- 
ly parents,  never  tell  a  falsehood,  put  full 
trust  in  God,  give  the  heart  to  Jesus,  live 
happy,  and  die  with  the  sure  prospect  of 
eternal  glory. 


THE  END. 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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The  basket  of 
flowers  i 


PZ32 

SMbfi 

1833 


